


Come Unto Me

by stilinstuck (superagentwolf)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-11-14 23:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11218176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/stilinstuck
Summary: Jackson's a werewolf, the Alpha Pack are a looming threat, Stiles kissed Derek, Allison and Chris are considering quitting, Beacon Hills is under attack from a Druid, and Derek's family may not all be dead. Oh, and Stiles kissed Derek.





	1. Practical(ly) Magic

“… _Stiles,_ ” Derek growls, ducking as something flies past.

It’s a hammer. _Why the fuck is it a hammer?_

“Yeah, Der-,”

“ _Why_ did you have to antagonize him?”

“Um, ex _cuse_ you,” Stiles sputters, watching tools fly overhead. “I’m not the one starting turf wars with random werewolves.”

Which is arguable, but. Stiles is making a _point_.

“You know, one of these days-,”

“I’m gonna get myself killed,” Stiles agrees, sprinting from cover.

He hears Derek’s growl and string of curses, but he ignores them, making his way towards the abandoned sack of wolfsbane. It’s warm in his hand and he hears the crazy Omega sprint towards him, furious. It takes a second to untie the bag and then he’s throwing a handful of blue dust, ducking as an enormous and furry body barrels in his direction.

There’s a low grunt and Stiles blinks, straightening, watching the Omega hurtle towards the wall. It hits with a painful sound and Derek stands, muscles rippling minutely with the effort. Stiles tries not to stare.

“That was stupid,” Derek turns, berating.

“Oh, _god_ , why do you have to ruin it? We were doing so well,” Stiles sighs, shaking his head as he retrieves his bat from a corner of the room.

“You call this _well_?”

“Every couple has problems,” Stiles winks, feeling his heart rate escalate.

Just a little bit of fear. Nervousness. Not because he likes Derek. _No_. Totally not.

Derek rolls his eyes, tossing a red hoodie to Stiles.

“Food,” the man says shortly, rotating his arm, one hand on his shoulder, and Stiles fails at trying not to stare.

_Totally not because I like him._

* * *

There are the others- Isaac, Erica, Boyd, even Jackson and Scott. They _should_ be spending time with Derek. They’re just not. Jackson is taking the summer to be with Lydia- which Stiles does _not_ still feel heartbreak over- and Isaac and Scott are mysteriously best pals. Erica and Boyd have presumably been…studying? Stiles isn’t really sure. All he knows is that the furry pals of Beacon Hills are AWOL, and he’s the only one left to help Derek out.

“Help”. It’s really like Derek drags him along in case he dies and needs someone to tell the others what happened. Which is funny, considering how Derek seems to think that Stiles can’t handle himself.

In any case, Stiles has become an accomplice during Derek’s regular run-ins with roaming werewolves. Stiles has to wonder how no outsiders had ever secured the Hale property before, but he figures that Laura would have been even more intimidating than her brother when she’d been around.

“Hey,” Derek nods, chin jerking in a reflex.

_Have you ever noticed, it’s up when the guy knows you and down when they don’t,_ Stiles thinks to himself, and he’s glad they’ve moved from down to up territory. And now he’s thinking about something _not_ platonic…

“Need something?”

He leans against his mop. The clinic is spotless- Deaton had raised an eyebrow, impressed, the first day Stiles had come in to work. _I’m good at things I put my mind to,_ Stiles had said, _especially when they keep my mind off other things._

Deaton had nodded and accepted him as Scott’s temporary shift cover. Which had become more of a permanent shift cover. Not that Stiles is complaining, because money.

“Is Deaton around?”

Derek starts to walk closer and Stiles raises a hand, opening his mouth to warn, but it’s already too late. Derek’s foot slips out from under him and he blinks, shock clear on his face, and Stiles cries out and reaches for the man’s arm.

Derek grabs him, firm, and it’s painfully strong. He also drags Stiles down, and they fly to the floor in a heap.

“ _Fffffu_ -,” Stiles starts, ears ringing, and his head feels bruised.

There’s something heavy on him, and he blinks to see Derek lifting himself up. From where HE IS STRADDLING HIM.

_ShitSHITSHIT-_

“You okay?”

“…um- yeah- you-,” Stiles tries, winded and confused both mentally and physically.

Well, he’s not _confused_ physically, per se. His body seems to know exactly what it wants.

And in the blink of an eye, Derek _blushes._ He absolutely _blushes_ and Stiles almost gasps, thinking _holy fuck that’s adorable why is that adorable_ , and the man sputters.

“Sorry- I- um-,” and he jumps up, watching Stiles cough a little in pain.

He holds his hand out, trying not to look directly at Stiles, which is funny. Stiles accepts the hand, trying not to think about how warm and strong it is.

“No worries, Sourwolf. Not like you purposely jumped me,” Stiles jokes, trying to cautiously stretch.

He winces a little when he lifts his arm, shoulder twinging. It disappears almost immediately, though, and then Stiles is trying not to scream in excitement because Derek’s hand is on his arm. He looks penitent, which is also amazing and shocking.

“That will _never_ stop being cool,” he mutters, watching the black run through Derek’s veins.

“I just wanted to ask him something,” Derek explains, still avoiding Stiles’ eyes. “I’ve been seeing some strange things in the woods.”

“What? Like fairies?”

Derek grudgingly glances at Stiles, a false sheen of annoyance lying over his features.

“No,” he says. “…I don’t think so.”

Stiles chokes on his laugh, hiding a grin under his hand. Derek’s lips twitch and Stiles likes the way his hazel eyes sparkle a little.

“Okay. Tell me about it.”

* * *

“What’s he doing here?”

Stiles ignores Jackson’s rude remark, focusing on trying to appear casual. He’s not surprised that everyone is at the Hale house, but he is a little disappointed. He came to help Derek, but it seems like Derek hadn’t bothered to think about explanations.

“Shouldn’t you be training?” Derek asks blandly.

Stiles stifles a laugh. Lydia looks at Jackson, raising a pristine eyebrow, and adjusts her crossed legs.

“If I’m a problem,” Stiles starts, trying to keep his voice down for the sake of appearances.

“You’re not the problem,” Derek says calmly, leading the way towards the back door, and Stiles tries not to _oooh_ out loud.

“This it?” Stiles asks, catching sight of the circle.

“Yes.”

It’s close to the house, just at the edge of some trees. The circle is burned into the ground, grass blackened in pristine lines. Stiles bends down, fingers tracing the symbols. He can still feel heat.

“You said you found it in the morning?”

“Eight. When I came out to run.”

“God, you’re disgustingly perfect,” Stiles snorts. “ _I’m Derek Hale and I wake up at eight in the morning to go running. It takes work to look like Adonis_ ,” he mutters.

“…really?”

Sarcastic, but not hostile. That’s what their relationship is now, Stiles thinks. It’s fond.

“You’ve got a Witch circle,” he says, dusting his hands off. “Congrats. That’s a first.”

“A witch?”

“Yup. Be glad they’re not using Voodoo, or anything related. It might just be their attempt at intimidation.”

Derek sighs, arms crossed, and Stiles smiles a little.

“Hey, no worries,” he says, glancing back at the house where the Pack are being rowdy. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

Derek blinks, following Stiles’ gaze, and the realization softens his expression.

“Don’t you need-,”

“It should be fine,” Stiles reassures him. “I’ll work from the Clinic. Just keep an eye out.”

* * *

He had told Deaton. The man stepped away for a minute, letting Stiles set up and start, because someone had come in with their dog. Stiles had set up his circle, cross-legged on the floor, and started meditating.

Three minutes in he was ready, exhaling slowly, focusing on the elements he’d placed around the circle. _Time to track a witch._

He’d opened his mouth, the words coming from memory, and a second later something had happened.

It had been loud, but quiet. Painful. A bright flash of white, blinding and brilliant, and then everything had stopped.

* * *

“ _We have a problem,_ ” Deaton says, and Derek feels his brow furrow.

“What do you mean, a problem?”

He can hear the Pack quieting behind him, where they’re sprawled across the living room. Eavesdropping.

But he ignores them, because he feels his heart drop and he’s dreading what he thinks is coming next.

“ _It’s Stiles. I think something took him._ ”

“Fuck,” Derek curses, tearing his jacket from the coat hooks as he sprints towards his car.

The Pack murmur inside but he’s focused on the phone.

“Where did he go?”

* * *

_He’s somewhere in town,_ Deaton had said, showing Derek the remnants of the circle in the Clinic. _I think the goal was him- or at least someone from the Pack. Start with empty houses. Older ones._

He hadn’t asked why houses, or old houses. He’d just agreed to contact Deaton in case of an emergency before leaving.

He’s not sure where to start. He knows old houses are in short supply in Beacon Hills, but he feels like the longer it takes for him to find Stiles, the greater the risk that something bad will happen.

So he drives a little too fast, hoping if anyone stops him it’ll be Stiles’ father, since at least he can convince the man. It’s not until much later that Derek realizes Deaton had called Stiles Pack.

* * *

Stiles wakes in a foul-smelling place.

_Jesus, what is that, fish-_

He chokes back a gasp when he sees the rotting wood around him, and the ominous skeleton in the corner.

Skeleton. In the corner.

“Okay, this is fine,” he mutters to himself, trying to slow his heartbeat. “We’re fine. It’s cool. All right- phone.”

His pockets are empty, which he’d expected, but he had hoped. Now…

The steps creak.

_Fuck,_ he thinks, and then, _I am not dying down here without punching Derek in the face and maybe also doing something else with it-_

The footsteps land heavily and he watches the person- if it could be called one- creep down. It looks, mildly put, disgusting. It was probably a woman once, he thinks, but now its hair is matted and greenish; its clothes are ragged and filthy, shoes eaten through in places.

“Hi,” he manages, shaky. “I think you have the wrong person.”

It makes its way across the room in a fraction of a second and he almost screams- _almost_ \- but he’s left wondering if it can fucking teleport because he’s not sure how to handle that.

Its hands are on his face and he tries not to vomit because it smells terrible and the hands feel desiccated, sucked of moisture but slick with something unimaginable.

“Don’t don’t don’t-,” he says, repeating the word as he tries to get away.

It’s strong, and he can’t move even when he tries to look down to see if something is holding him in place. He can’t feel his body and it’s terrifying. The thing’s hands tighten and he tries to scream. He’s struggling against it, shaking, unsure of what it is he’s saying, and then there’s a loud bang and all he sees is a sheen of something disgusting and sticky over his face.

He falls to the ground painfully, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that he was being held far off the ground. His body is sore and he coughs, blinking, body wracked with odd spasms. The thing is next to him, its head gone, but its hand still moves towards him. He coughs, trying to speak, and nails dig painfully into his arm.

There is blood and then someone is pulling him away, strong and warm, and Stiles blinks violently.

_Derek_.

“Stiles,” the man is saying, worry in his eyes, but Stiles shakes his head and tries to reach into his pocket, forgetting nothing is there.

“Metal,” he gasps, “iron. Anything.”

Derek looks confused, still worried, but he carefully leans Stiles against a wall before searching the room. He reaches up to the ceiling, ripping something that looks like a pipe, and passes it to Stiles.

“Great,” he manages, holding the cold metal in his hand. “Stand back.”

He tries to ignore the fact that it looks vaguely human, swinging with all the strength and adrenaline he has left, and there’s a shrill scream as he impales the thing through the chest. It makes his ears hurt, and he falls to his knees, groaning in pain. Derek moves closer, gritting his teeth, eyes flashing.

And then, somehow, it’s quiet.

“Are you all right?”

“Peachy,” Stiles spits, trying not to gag. “I have brains all over my face. Fermented brains- God, this is gross, I can’t-,”

“Come on,” Derek says, thankfully and mysteriously knowing what to do, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

* * *

They walk through the front door and Stiles hopes the smell won’t stick. He already cleaned the entire house and he really doesn’t feel like doing it again to get rid of the zombie smell.

“You good?”

“I mean, you’re free to join me,” Stiles jokes, but they’re both still too hyped up to make it funny.

“Here,” Derek says, pulling a new towel out of the closet, and Stiles reminds himself to ask about that later.

He takes a shower in boiling water, scrubbing away the smell and slime with something that smells like pine. He loves the smell of pine- it’s like Christmas and good memories. It helps, just a little, and then his brain unhelpfully reminds him that Derek is just outside. He thinks.

_Maybe he crawled back out the window,_ Stiles tells himself, but the rest of him isn’t listening.

He’s just able to slip into sweatpants, cringing, before he slips back to his room.

Derek is lying on the bed, a leg crossed over his knee, a book suspended over his face.

Lying.

On Stiles’ bed.

_Oh, God,_ Stiles thinks, trying to compose himself, and he realizes Derek is reading one of Stiles’ books from the nineties or something, one his mother had loved.

“Hey,” Derek says, breaking his silence, propping himself up. “I…do you-,”

“I don’t mind,” Stiles says, because he doesn’t and he’ll probably try to inhale the bed later.

“…are you feeling better?”

“Less disgusting,” Stiles says drily, tossing his clothes in the hamper. “And that was _really_ disgusting, by the way. Ten out of ten would not recommend. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m super grateful and all- just a little warning would be nice. I could have had my _mouth open_.”

Derek smiles- actually _smiles_ \- and Stiles almost thinks it was all worth it. Almost.

“What was that?”

“Beats me,” Stiles grumbles, “we’ll have to ask Deaton to be sure. Probably a witch- but a nasty one. Old. Not like the nice, modern ones.”

“Modern witch?” Derek echoes, brow furrowed. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles snorts, dropping into his computer chair. It rolls a few inches towards the bed.

They’re quiet and then Stiles looks down at his hands, heart rate picking up a little. He hopes Derek brushes it off as nerves.

Derek’s leg extends and he pulls the chair closer with a foot hooked around the legs, which _is not hot, stop it,_ and then they’re face-to-face.

“You’re really okay?”

“… _yes_ ,” Stiles insists, blinking a little too much, “I’m fine. Really.”

Heart rate faster. So much faster.

“No, you’re not,” Derek frowns, hands circling around Stiles’ wrists.

Which.

He’s strong, but not _that_ strong.

So he gets a little distracted by the miniscule freckles on the man’s face and then Derek’s hazel eyes are locked on his, faltering, getting a little unfocused. Stiles feels the echo of triumph in his chest, a tiny seed of _yes, hyperawareness is paying off,_ and then he decides why not take the initiative.

It’s not like Derek’s getting any younger.

_Ha._

He can’t quite ignore the way Derek inhales sharply- shocked- and seems nearly immobile. It’s flattering but a tiny bit worrying because Stiles doesn’t want to _force_ anything. Still, he likes Derek’s scruff and he lets himself enjoy the moment (because when will he get another chance, honestly) while it’s happening. He’s glad it’s summer and Derek doesn’t keep up with himself because the half-inch of hair on his head is enough to pleasantly scratch his fingers across. It’s fun to tug at the top, where it’s longer and decidedly more useful for making out.

_Wow, I’m actually doing this,_ he thinks, _I’m actually attacking Derek with my mouth and for once it’s not verbal._

He breaks away when he can’t breathe and moves back an inch, not caring that he’s exposed when he swipes a tongue over his lip experimentally. _Yum,_ he thinks distractedly. Derek’s eyes are _fucked_ , which is somehow more intoxicating than it should be; Stiles counts it as a victory when Derek doesn’t move away.

“…you…,” Derek manages, at a loss.

_At a loss._

“M-hm,” Stiles murmurs, agreeing, leaning in again, but then he remembers to pause.

He stops, a few centimeters away, and searches Derek’s face. _Do I? Do I not?_ He’s not going to take advantage, so he decides to give the man a chance. A push.

“…I’ll stop,” he offers, arms lazily dangling over the back of the chair.

He wonders if Derek finds what he’s looking for because his eyes stop roaming, locking themselves firmly on Stiles’ undoubtedly red mouth.

“…what for?” Derek says, a smile flickering to life, and Stiles almost dies.

Almost but not quite, because he’s not dying with only one kiss on his lips. The answer makes him grin and he closes the gap again, victorious.


	2. Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks he should add 'professional werewolf bro' to his resume. He also thinks that humor can't always work as a shield.

He’s a little bit confused.

He’s never really thought about it before- aside from the occasional joking question directed at Danny. His preferences, that is. They were always pretty clear: Lydia. Smart, pretty, popular, redheaded. Unafraid.

Derek is none of those things.

Well…most of them.

He won’t deny ‘pretty’ gets him. Still, Derek is a hard left turn from his infatuation with Lydia, so part of him is wondering if it wasn’t just a terrible, spur-of-the-moment thing. If it’s about to make his life an awkward, living hell.

“ _I’m actually on the road,_ ” Scott says, the grimace obvious in his voice.

“Oh. I didn’t know you were going somewhere.”

“ _Coming back, actually. I was going to tell you, it’s just…,_ ”

“Wolf stuff.”

“ _Yeah._ ”

“Right. Um- full moon tonight. Be careful.”

“ _We will. Thanks,_ ” Scott says cheerily.

He knows Scott will be fine. It’s Isaac he’s more concerned about. Hopefully everything goes well.

Or as well as two teen werewolves driving back from God knows where can go.

* * *

He made dinner for his dad. Chickpea tacos, one of his favorites. He made it and then he saw the note on the table- picking up slack, as always, and Stiles is left to eat alone and pretend he forgot to bring his dad dinner because it’s burger night any time it’s a long night.

He’s just putting things away when there’s frantic knocking on the front door.

Being a pal with a pack of werewolves makes him wary. He’s not keen on getting kidnapped again. There’s a bat by the door- he put it there, to his father’s amusement, and now it’s ready to be swung at an intruder.

He opens the door, tense, and sees Lydia.

“I need your help,” she manages, out of breath.

“What-?”

“He doesn’t have enough control,” she says, turning and walking swiftly back towards her car.

Stiles follows after a moment of realization- after his heart stops pounding painfully at the sight of her. She’s already pulling her car door open, swinging into the driver’s seat, knuckles white against the wheel.

“What happened?”

“I tried- he’s different. It’s the full moon. It just spiraled out of control.”

“Where is he?”

“We were at my house but we went to his when it started getting bad- he’s in the basement-,”

“Okay, I need you to listen to me,” Stiles starts, mind already reeling. “I _know_ you want to help, but he’s dangerous right now. I need you to stay upstairs while I try to help him. If something happens, you _have_ to call Derek.”

She shoots him a brief look- disbelief, aggravation.

“He’s got _Peter_ living with him, I’m not-,”

“I _know_ what Peter did, but Derek’s not Peter-,”

“No, you’re right, he’s almost worse-,”

“ _Lydia._ If Jackson loses control and goes running around Beacon Hills, we’ll have a lot more problems than Derek being a hypocrite or a moron. Okay?”

She looks furious. Not at him, really- he knows what it is. She’s angry this ever happened. She’s angry that Peter tried to bite her and woke her power. She’s angry that Jackson was dragged into everything, first a kanima and then a wolf. She’s angry that everyone in the supernatural underworld of Beacon Hills seems to be running around with their heads cut off.

Except Scott. Scott’s pretty removed. Maybe Isaac.

They pull up to Jackson’s house and Stiles reaches into his pocket, the wolfsbane packet heavy in his hand.

“Here. Take this. If he tries to get to close, _use_ it. He’ll be fine, but you won’t survive any accidents.”

Lydia takes it, hand hesitating on the doorknob, and then his heart cracks again.

“Thank you.”

* * *

The basement is cold. He descends the stairs, careful, and squints in the dim light.

There’s a growl from the corner.

“Jackson?”

Louder. Stiles grits his teeth, bat firm in hand. He doesn’t want to use it, but he’s not sure how far gone Jackson is. He remembers Scott, pulling at his handcuffs and trying to tear himself away from the radiator. It’s funny. He remembers Scott was trying to get to Allison. He wonders what Jackson’s trying to do.

There’s a metallic noise, chains biting, and a roar as Jackson lunges. Stiles jerks backwards, grip tightening, and then Jackson stops short. He’s tied, Stiles notices, to a metal hook in the ceiling. He wonders if Jackson could tear it out. Maybe bring some of the ground floor down with it.

“Hey. It’s me. Just me. Stiles.”

More growling. Rattling on the chains. It’s disturbing, watching Jackson at a complete loss, trying to get free. He’s so used to the Jackson at school- the popular guy, the one with rude remarks, the one with a perpetually cocked eyebrow. This Jackson isn’t even like the kanima. That had been different- it had been so different, Stiles hadn’t connected the two at all. This, though- this is wrong. This is something with Jackson’s body and face, contorted with sharp teeth and claws, eyes glowing and hollow in the darkness.

“I need you to listen to me, for once,” Stiles tries. “Listen.”

It’s not really working. He can hear the hook in the ceiling creaking. He distantly wonders if it could come unbent with Jackson’s struggling.

“Lydia’s waiting for you, you asshole,” he snaps, adrenaline and anger flooding his veins.

It’s probably the wrong thing to say because Jackson strains even more, snarling and yanking at his bonds.

“Listen to me, you _dick_! I know you hate me, but you’re not getting through this without help. I _know_ what I’m talking about. You have to _listen_!”

He gives up on waiting for a reply. All he can do is talk at Jackson and hope something sticks.

“You need an _anchor_. It can be anything. Even you. It’s something that keeps you tied down. Something you can hold on to. It weighs you down at port. It’s home. _Think,_ Jackson. Think. What’s your anchor?”

He at least struggle less. It gives Stiles hope, if only a little.

“Derek uses a triskele. Three spirals, connected. They’re important to him. What’s important to you? Not being popular. Not lacrosse. Something else. Something you hold inside, something you won’t tell anyone. A place in your mind or in the world where you feel _right_. It’s your anchor, Jackson. Use it. Pull yourself back with it. Follow it to shore.”

Jackson curls on his side, panting, coughing, and Stiles doesn’t know when he fell to his knees. All he knows is that his hands are on the ground and he’s trying to find Jackson’s eyes, twisting his body on the floor in a bizarre mirror of the werewolf before him.

“Come on. That’s it. Come back,” Stiles coaxes, watching Jackson’s eyes flicker.

The mirrors deepen, flat color giving way to a glow. The blue is bright in the dark basement and Stiles sighs, letting his body slump onto the ground. He lies face-down on the cement for a minute, somehow tired.

“…what are you doing here?”

Muffled a little. Fang talk, Stiles thinks with amusement.

“Helping you.”

“…why?”

Stiles props himself up on his elbows, frowning. Jackson doesn’t look at him.

“Because you needed it. And you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I wasn’t,” Jackson says, trying to sound smug, but he’s too worn out to make it convincing.

“I know. She did a good job.”

“She should leave,” Jackson says sharply.

Stiles raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“I know you think you’re doing that for both your benefit, but I’m gonna tell you right now it’s too late.”

“It’s not,” Jackson snarls, and Stiles tenses. “I’ll go. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“Did Scott? Or Erica? Boyd, Isaac? Does anyone?”

Jackson scowls at him and Stiles sighs, rolling over onto his back. He’s rubbing his eyes, trying not to get too worked up, but it’s been a long night and a longer life. _High school, man_.

“Life isn’t fair, Jackson. You just have to make do with what you have. Besides, she would have realized her powers at some point. And you know she won’t leave you.”

“She should.”

That’s new. Interesting.

He’s always known Jackson isn’t a to-the-bone asshole. It was just easier to not like him because he was a jerk. He’s never been close enough to wonder what it was that made Jackson the way he is. Now he knows. He knows and it’s all too familiar.

“I’ve never hated you, you know. Even when you were a major dick.”

“You’re not doing a good job of being helpful,” Jackson sneers.

“See? Like that. I know you don’t like me. Just something about our personalities. But I need you to know I don’t hate you, and you can always get help from me. Whenever.”

He peels himself up from the floor, picking up his discarded bat. He thinks Lydia’s probably eavesdropping. When he reaches the top of the stairs, he opens the door and sees her standing with arms crossed, right by stairs. He would have been fooled, but the slight movement to her skirt and the fact that it’s her tells him she was listening.

“Go ahead. Call me if you have any trouble.”

“I can drive-,”

“No. It’s fine. Not far,” Stiles says, slipping out the front door, and he tries to keep his voice steady.

* * *

It would be easier to hate Jackson if he were a bad person. It would be easier to hate him and pine after Lydia. It would be easier.

He’s not a bad person, though- he wants things, just like everyone else, and he has issues just like everyone else. Plus he’s a werewolf now. There is no reason for Stiles to hate Jackson, which means he can’t hate Jackson being with Lydia, and it scares him.

It scares him because it was easy before. Easy to say _she deserves better than a jerk like him,_ but he’s not just a jerk and Lydia clearly knows what she’s doing. Even after everything, she’s with him, too. What they have isn’t just going to go away.

It’s a relief, really, to know what’s changed and recognize it. It’s so relieving that Stiles can’t stop fucking crying. The sidewalk is barely illuminated in the night with yellowing lights and he makes his way home, tears unending, because he can’t hate Jackson with Lydia and that’s a whole part of his life completely gone. That’s a person, a love, and it’s dying inside of him a little bit. Changing, maybe, because he’ll never not love Lydia- but it’s not the same.

Nothing has ever been the same.

He’s angry at his stupid tears and angry at the world and angry at goddamn werewolves and he feels the weight of the bat on his shoulder, heavy like his drowned heart.

“Stiles?”

He stops, not turning, thinking _of course_. Of course, because he hadn’t seen Derek in a week and of course it would be the day his heart really and truly breaks that he runs into the man. He turns his head, just a little, looking at the man in his car.

“What’s wrong?”

Derek asks, probably too oblivious to realize the direction they’ve come from, and Stiles wants to dissolve into the sidewalk. He wants to stop being, to stop breathing, to stop. Just stop. He wants the heartache to stop.

“I’m going home,” Stiles manages, voice shockingly steady as if it hasn’t got notice yet of the breakdown he’s having.

“I’ll take you,” Derek offers. “Get in.”

Derek is tense in the car, casting glances at Stiles, unusually worried. Stiles is just trying to hold the edges together until he gets home. He focuses on anything other than Jackson and Lydia and the basement. Anything.

“You’re not hurt?”

“I’m not hurt,” Stiles manages, because he can’t say _no_ , it would be a lie.

He’s hurt where he can’t see it. Where he can’t fix it. Broken bones are easy. Sprains, cuts, bruises, aches from getting his face slammed into a steering wheel or arm twisted behind his back. This is other. It’s harder. He wonders if Derek can smell the salt of his tears and then they’re pulling up into the driveway.

The headlights illuminate the garage door and he remembers his Jeep, hitting Jackson, Lydia trying to bring him back. He remembers every sharp, aching detail, and it starts rolling over him like cement. He can’t breathe.

“…Stiles,” Derek manages, confusion and worry leaking into his words.

He’s washed over by the waves. Paralyzing. The breath in his chest short, not enough, and the world swirling when all he can hear is Lydia crying and Jackson talking to her. Promises. Apologies. The fairytale ending, the princess waking the prince.

“-e on. Come on, Stiles,” he hears Derek saying, and he is dimly aware of the attack.

He knows what’s happening and he hates that Derek has to see it.

“I can’t take it- I don’t know what’s wrong, Stiles, there’s nothing-,” Derek is saying, trying.

Stiles feels his heart crack a little. _He thinks it’s pain. He’s trying to take it,_ he realizes, watching Derek grip his arm, the same move from when he’d hurt him in the clinic. Derek is trying to take his pain and that breaks his heart just enough to break him out of the panic.

He breaks down, sobbing in a way he can’t remember doing since the funeral, and Derek pulls him closer.

“It’s okay, Stiles, it’s okay,” he says, over and over like a prayer.

The words loop comfortingly and Stiles lets his tears run out, grateful, thinking that maybe there are other ways to help take someone’s pain away from them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always been a fan of developing Jackson past the 'popular asshole' stereotype. Hopefully I get to do that more. What are your hopes for this 'verse? Thanks for reading, as always, and I love hearing from you!


	3. Trainers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends are far and few between when you're dealing with the supernatural. Luckily, Stiles and Allison both realize they may have one more friend than they realized.

She’s out running. The moon is high- not full yet- and the air is cool. She doesn’t listen to music while running in the woods anymore; it’s not safe. Her hearing may not be as good as a werewolf’s but it’s all she can count on for warning. The silver dagger at her waist and wolfsbane at her neck are the only things keeping danger at bay.

When she’s running, she can forget about her grandfather. Her aunt. Everything goes away until all that’s left is the sound of her breath, heavy and even in the night air. She can almost convince herself things are normal again.

Almost.

Something snaps in the distance. She bites her tongue, keeping pace, gauging the direction. It’s from deeper in the woods. The road is only a half mile to the left; she keeps it there like a thread guiding her back home. She biked here, though, and she knows that if something chases her it’ll catch up.

She doesn’t want to give up her run but she turns anyways, feet pounding evenly against the terrain as she heads back towards the road. As soon as she turns she hears a rustle- close- and she reaches for the knife, ready.

The man- _werewolf,_ she corrects herself- lunges from higher ground. She turns towards him, elbows locked, braced for the impact. The wolfsbane will keep her neck from getting ripped out; it won’t stop him from taking an arm or a leg.

The man roars in her face and she steels herself, blade slicing across his face effortlessly. Something metal- a necklace, she thinks, flies through the air. He jumps away, loud and in pain, and she rolls to her feet. The pouch at her neck is loosened and she takes a pinch of wolfsbane- just enough to slow him down- and blows it in his direction.

She runs faster and harder than before, barely stopping to pull her bike upright. She’s almost still running when she pushes a pedal, foot slamming down, reeling towards the lighted street. The wolf is still howling somewhere behind her but she doesn’t look back.

_I should call someone,_ she thinks. Her father knows where she is, though, and something tells her the wolf won’t follow. Despite the logic, she’s still biking towards the nearby houses, off the road home but well-lit and populated.

Besides, she’s not sure who to call. She and Scott aren’t really…together, really. They still love each other and they’re still friends but her pride- however silly- keeps her from calling him. She doesn’t want to be a damsel in distress. She’s not.

Lydia’s with Jackson. She understands, she really does- he’s underprepared and Lydia’s piecing together her mind after the last year of Peter-related hallucinations and supernatural incidents. She doesn’t want to put any more stress on them.

Her best friend and boyfriend have their own problems. _This isn’t even really a problem,_ she thinks, but she wants- needs- something. She finds the contact on her phone- isn’t sure she’s ever used it, feels a little guilty- and dials.

“ _Allison?_ ”

“Stiles. Hey,” she says, all in one breath, trying to sound normal. Whatever that is.

“ _What’s wrong?_ ” the question is immediate.

She feels a little flattered that he notices. There are muffled sounds on his end- she thinks maybe he’s moving around.

“I- it’s probably nothing,” she starts and then she hates that she says it.

_I’m stronger than that. Stronger than excuses._

“ _We can hope,_ ” Stiles says lightly. “ _where are you?_ ”

“I’m biking home,” she explains, glancing behind.

“ _Okay. Followed?_ ”

“I don’t think so. I managed to cut him and throw some wolfsbane behind me.”

“ _Nice,_ ” he says and she can imagine his smile.

She wonders why they don’t know each other better. There are magazines that say things about _be friends with his friends, that’s an indicator for him_ , so on and so forth. She’s met Stiles plenty of times; he’s always around Scott. They just don’t…talk much.

“I’m three blocks away from my house,” she breathes. “I’m not being followed. He’s probably not going to.”

“ _Do you still want me to come?_ ”

She hesitates.

Technically, nothing’s wrong. She’s not hurt and she knows her house is safe. It was, she thinks, probably an accident on the man’s part. She doubts he’ll get anywhere near the Hale house. She knows this, but she still doesn’t want to be alone.

“ _You know what- my dad won’t be home tonight, and I don’t feel like cooking. Pizza?_ ”

“Yeah,” she smiles, grateful. “Pepperoni.”

“ _Extra pepperoni,_ ” he says, sounding cheerful. “ _I’ll be over in ten._ ”

*

Chris opens the door and Stiles kind of wants to die.

Hello, sir, I’m here to see your daughter, my best friend’s ex, and I in no way want to take advantage of her or date her at all in the foreseeable future.

He decides not to say that.

“Hi,” he tries, the pizza box hot in his hand. “is she-,”

“She’s upstairs,” the man says, grey eyes scrutinizing.

They’re cool eyes. Stiles has always been partially fascinated by them, which is perfectly normal and not in any way weird. He can appreciate nice eyes.

“Okay. She told you?”

It’s two questions. He’s not about to betray her run-in; it’s not his place. Chris steps aside, waving him in.

“Yes. She called you?”

_You?_ Another question hangs in the air. Stiles wonders when saying one thing and meaning another became the frustrating norm in his life.

“Yeah. Ya know. Human club,” he jokes, playing it off.

He doesn’t say _our friends are supernatural creatures, they have enough problems,_ but Chris gets the hint. He smiles, something grateful in his expression.

“I’m glad there’s at least one of you.”

“Thought I heard you,” Allison says from the stairs, smiling.

“Hey. Pizza.”

“Come on up. Thanks, dad,” she smiles.

Her room is surprisingly unsurprising. It’s light and bright- the sheets are pale, the furniture cream-colored. It looks, for lack of a better word, like a girl’s room. Stiles wonders if she used to read on the weekends, eat ice cream cross-legged while watching her favorite T.V. show.

“I…I’m not sure why I called you,” she confesses, apologetic and a little embarrassed.

Her hair is wet, probably from the shower, and her pajama pants are fuzzy. They look warm.

“Hey,” he says, pretending to be hurt, “I’m useful.”

“I know,” she smiles, climbing onto the bed. “I just…I know we haven’t really talked much.”

He sits on the only chair in the room, passing her the pizza. She puts it at the foot of the bed, passing him a napkin.

“Yeah. It’s fine, though. You and Scott hung out more.”

_Shit,_ he thinks, wanting desperately to backtrack. Sometimes he wonders why he opens his mouth. Allison shifts on the bed, picking a pepperoni off her slice and eating it.

“I should have cared more. I mean, you’re his best friend.”

“Hey- it’s not like I make me easy to like,” he snorts. “Most people get enough of me after one meeting.”

“You’re not that bad.”

“Are you saying that because you know I know about werewolves, or because you’re just not annoyed by me yet?”

She shakes her head but she’s smiling. Stiles knows why Scott fell in love with her. Allison is sweet; not just for show or because she tries- she _is_. She’s sweet and incredibly strong and somehow, she’s making it not awkward for her ex’s best friend to be in her bedroom with pizza at ten at night.

“You’re a good friend, Stiles. I guess…I was being selfish. I just wanted to borrow your friendship for a minute.”

It breaks his heart a little. She’s a good person and she’s been through three-quarters of her family losing their lives to the supernatural. By all rights, she should be hunting down the werewolves in Beacon Hills and killing them slowly. She’s not, though. She’s defending herself, _running in the woods_ , and trying not to call the only people she can depend on because she doesn’t want to bother them.

He knows that feeling all too well.

“Borrow?” he asks, feigning confusion. “We’re not friends?”

She opens her mouth to answer and stops, biting back her growing smile. If he were a werewolf, he thinks he’d sense relief.

“I think I know why Scott loves you so much,” she says, taking a bite of pizza.

“Me too,” he says, knowing it’ll hurt a little but it’ll help, too.

Her eyes are a little less sad. She reaches for the remote, watching the T.V. flicker to life. Stiles folds his pizza, biting half of it, thinking maybe sometimes double meanings can be good.

“Do you train?” she asks suddenly, flipping channels.

“Um- what do you mean? For lacrosse?”

“For werewolves,” she corrects, an eyebrow arched.

“Oh, you know- I carry a bat and some wolfsbane.”

“Really? Do you know any self-defense?”

“I’m a good hit?”

It’s a lame answer. The truth is he has no practical way to learn. She reaches for another slice, nodding mock-seriously at it. It’s a funny image.

“Do you want to train?”

“Oh, god, you’re gonna kick my ass,” he groans, throwing his head back, and her laughter rings clear like bells.

Chris says good night an hour later, somehow looking more like a father than Stiles has ever seen him. Allison is already half-asleep on her bed, the light of _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ bathing the room. Stiles gets up to say goodbye, pausing at the bedside.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks.

He’s sure he can think of an excuse. He thinks Chris trusts him.

“No. Thank you,” she smiles, blinking slowly. “You’re a good friend, Stiles.”

“Night, Wonder Woman,” he says, not sure why but feeling like it’s right.

Her smile widens and he decides it was a good choice. _Warrior princess,_ he thinks. It fits. Chris catches him downstairs, turning the lights off in the dining room.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, hands in his pockets.

“Yeah. I’m just glad she’s safe.”

“Get home safe,” Chris says.

The man watches him until he’s in his Jeep. Stiles leans against the wheel before he leaves, thinking. _A pack isn’t just werewolves,_ he thinks, turning towards home. _Sometimes humans need those connections, too._

*

“Out here,” Allison says, pointing out the path to Derek.

It’s been a week and a half. Stiles isn’t sure what Derek was doing or where he was; the man has been absent recently. Stiles has been seeing a lot of Allison recently- it’s summer, and she’s unsurprisingly strict about training. He admires that about her.

“Did you see the color of his eyes?”

“I didn’t get much time- blue, maybe?”

“It might’ve been an Omega,” Derek says. “the scent’s too long gone for me to tell anything useful.”

“He probably ran off,” Allison says. “I _did_ cut his face and throw wolfsbane at him.”

“Yeah, pro tip: don’t fight Allison, you’ll lose,” Stiles says. “Like, _totally_ lose. Wipe the walls with your face lose.”

Allison beams at him. Derek just raises an eyebrow, still looking around the ground. The evening is getting cooler, thankfully; Stiles wonders if it’s going to rain.

Rain.

“Derek, it rained,” he realizes.

“What-,”

“It _rained_. Allison, you said you cut something off him?”

“I think so. A necklace, maybe.”

“If it fell, it wouldn’t be here,” he says, moving quickly.

He can remember the maps- from the sheriff’s office- and the colors. The whorls and dips. In his mind, the rain is still falling, pooling in currents under his feet.

“Stiles,” Derek says.

He follows the path- a dip in the earth, gaps between trees. He follows it and then steps on something, stopping in his tracks. He moves his foot away and dusts off the necklace, brushing dirt off the surface. A symbol is etched into it.

“It’s stronger here,” Derek says, suddenly plucking the necklace from him. “I can check the woods; make sure they’re gone-,”

He doesn’t get to finish. Something tips him off and he turns, claws appearing. Stiles turns on his heel, locking eyes with Allison. There’s a moment of electricity between them. It’s an immediate understanding; he watches her run to him and he laces his hands, waiting for the fall of her foot so he can boost her up.

She’s up and in the tree almost immediately, pulling herself onto the branch. He isn’t worried about her; she’s in her element and she’d brought her bow with her. He worries about himself instead- making sure he’s ready to fight the approaching threat.

It is, he thinks, the same man that attacked Allison- except this time, he has friends. There are two others with him, which is convenient, he thinks. _One for each._ The biggest man flies at Derek, attacking, and he sees a second run towards the tree. The third lunges for him.

_Werewolves are strong,_ he can hear Allison say, _but strength can be used to your advantage. Get a little leverage, and you can throw almost anything off balance._

He ducks the man’s first blow, slipping the silver pair of knuckle dusters Allison lent him their first day of training. _You’ll find your weapon,_ she’d said, smiling. _Until then, basics._

When he comes up from the ground, his silver-clad fist punches into the man’s jaw.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts.

It’s sweet that he’s worried but Stiles wishes the man would concentrate; Derek goes flying overhead, hitting a tree with a winded noise. The man he’d been fighting turns on Stiles, ready, and then there’s a _snick_ and a tranquilizer-tipped arrow sticking out of his shoulder.

Stiles ducks around the man he’s fighting, quick, and slams his open palms on the man’s ears. He roars in pain- Stiles hopes he threw off the man’s balance and not just his hearing. Thankfully, the man falls to his knees and Stiles throws a leg over his shoulders, throwing his entire body to the ground. He rolls with the impact, crossing at the knees- _never let go, Stiles, never_ \- and uses the split second he’s gained to open his wolfsbane pouch and shove the powder up the man’s nose.

“Oh, _god,_ dis _gusting_!” he complains, scrubbing his fingers on the man’s shirt.

Derek is getting to his feet, stunned, and Allison drops from the tree with more grace than a ballerina.

“Nice hold,” she says, plucking her tranquilizer arrow from the man’s shoulder.

“A commendation from the commander! I feel so _honored_ ,” he presses a hand to his forehead.

“On your feet, soldier,” she laughs.

He rises to dust the leaves off his clothes, letting Allison examine his cheek. He thinks the man clipped him while trying to get out of the hold. Derek walks closer, hesitant, surveying the damage. Stiles feels more than a little proud of the handiwork.

“So. Guess that’s that,” he tries, waiting.

“…please be careful,” Derek finally says.

He’s holding a lot back. Stiles is grateful for that. The man looks like he wants to argue, tell them to stop, or maybe berate them. He’s supportive instead, which Stiles is impressed by. _A new attitude,_ he thinks. _Maybe that kiss wasn’t a total loss._

“He’s a good student,” Allison smiles, something in her eyes understanding when she looks at Stiles.

He has the sudden, nervous feeling that she knows.

“She’s the best teacher,” Stiles says, waving at the downed werewolves. “Clearly.”

For once, Derek doesn’t disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched Wonder Woman over the weekend and the respect in the love between Diana and Steve made me so proud. I'd like to think that Allison and Stiles have a sibling-like relationship...and I know they'd love and respect each other. It makes me sad we didn't get to see more of them in the show before the Nogitsune. Anyways, enjoy, and look forward to more!


	4. Finders Keepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if things weren't difficult enough, Beacon Hills is experiencing a nature meltdown. Stiles knows something is wrong. He just doesn't know what.

He’s at a party.

By all rights, he shouldn’t be but Scott is still pseudo-popular and he was invited, so. Stiles thinks it’s funny that people somehow know that Stiles goes where Scott does. The party was supposed to be small. It’s Heather’s birthday- he remembers her from kindergarten, a blonde little girl that was shy and giggly. They don’t talk much but they’re from the same neighborhood. It’s a friendship that could only exist in a small town.

“Wow,” Scott says, eyebrows almost disappearing into his overgrown hair.

“Yeah,” Stiles practically yells.

There are people everywhere. He thinks someone more popular showed up and brought people with them. The crowd is everywhere; he can barely move through the house without having to worm his way through a couple of static bodies.

“Stiles!”

He is practically assaulted by someone; it makes his skin itch and his first instinct is to fight. He ignores the instinct, cursing all creatures of the night, and finds himself being pulled in by the neck.

For some reason, Heather decides to make out with him on sight.

He can almost _hear_ Scott’s eyebrows rocket somewhere into space.

“Hey,” Heather smiles, breathless.

“Um-,”

“Come on,” she says, tugging him by the wrist.

He’s confused and overwhelmed. He glances back at Scott, trying to think of something to say, and Scott’s amused expression morphs into an encouraging smile. He’s being supportive. Stiles is grateful, but he thinks Scott doesn’t realize how confused he is.

Heather pulls him through a door, past the noise, and then they’re descending a staircase. The wood creaks beneath his feet- it’s a wine cellar, he remembers, because at her sixth birthday party the parents had caught a kid hiding during a game and they’d locked it for the rest of the day.

“Hey, what-,” he tries, fighting to keep his heartbeat steady.

He doesn’t do well in confined, underground spaces.

“I…want to do something special for my birthday,” she says, moving.

She’s taking her shoes off. He doesn’t know why.

“Okay-?”

“I…haven’t done this before,” she says, determined.

Oh. _Oh._

“Oh,” he says, short circuiting, unable to come up with an answer. “Um-,”

_What do I say? What do I do? Do I- I can’t-_

“I don’t-,” he starts, trying to remember the rest of the thought.

_What am I trying to say?_ _I don’t want to? I should…I would…_

“The bathroom. Upstairs,” she starts to say, “my brother-,”

Something creaks. He turns, worried.

“Is someone down here?” he asks.

“Stiles,” Heather says. “I know you haven’t-,”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, “you didn’t hear that?”

“Come on- we don’t have a lot of time,” she says. “Go. I’ll wait.”

_Right,_ he thinks, still hazy. _Right. I should go._ Something is nagging at him, like a pot left on a stove, but it’s too far to remember. All he knows is that he’s forgotten something. He climbs the stairs slowly, thinking only _I have to go upstairs_ , and then he steps outside.

He stands at the door to the cellar for a moment, blinking.

“-ski. Hey. Stilinski. What’s wrong with you?”

He snaps out of the trance, blinking, and feels sick. Jackson is staring at him, still in the crush of people. Stiles swallows.

“Jackson,” he says, trying to kick-start his brain. _Something’s wrong._ “Something’s wrong.”

He turns and almost falls down the stairs, tripping over his own feet to try and get down the stairs. There’s a ringing in the air, like a scream that was just cut off. He can see the window closing slowly and he sprints, lunging.

Jackson yells something as he tumbles out, slipping, falling to the ground. When he pushes himself up, his hands slip on something slick and warm.

_No, no, no-_

“Stiles,” Jackson says, pulling him up, worried.

“Something took her,” Stiles says, trying to breathe evenly. His heart is skipping.

“Stay here.”

He wants to say _don’t leave me_. Instead he watches Jackson go, hands shaking and covered in red. It smells- blood, he thinks, and something else. _Wine?_ His feet move almost on their own and he walks further into the trees, blinking, the sounds of the party behind him pulsing. The smell of blood is thick in the air.

Something hits him hard in the chest. He barely registers the sky flipping around him and then someone- something- roars. When he hits his back, he thinks he can see Jackson rushing by, tackling something.

“Stiles,” Scott yells.

“I’m fine,” he says, trying to blink away the stars in his eyes.

“Stay here!” Scott yells, running into the trees.

Scott and Jackson are gone. He can hear sirens close by. _I’ll have to cover for them if my dad shows up,_ he thinks. His father, who still doesn’t really know about the supernatural and just thinks his kid needs a different hobby.

He turns on the ground, trying to get to his feet, and then he sees her. He sees her eyes, strangely devoid of something vital, staring at him.

He isn’t sure when he starts screaming. All he knows is that he can hear voices from the party and he wants to say, _no, stay back,_ but the police are already there and then someone is pulling him up and away from the body. He barely recognizes the deputy that tucks him away in a cruiser, locking him away from the world.

From Heather, lying on the ground and lifeless.

*

“You okay?”

Stiles doesn’t lift his head. He’s lying on his stomach, boneless, when Derek’s voice fills his room.

“…hey,” he says.

There’s a creak- Derek descending from the window, he imagines. It feels nostalgic to have the man climbing into his room. _Mark that down as another thing I didn’t know I needed in my life._ He’s still lying down when he feels Derek move closer, the man’s familiar pine-tree smell lingering by the bed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“You found her…like that,” Derek says. “I…that’s not something anyone should have to do.”

“I didn’t have to,” Stiles says, rolling onto his side, staring at a spot on Derek’s knee. “I just did.”

“I know,” Derek says, crouching.

Stiles tries not to smile. The man looks like a puppy with his chin resting on the bed. He can’t help reaching out to touch Derek’s hair. It feels soft. He wonders why it feels so nice to be touching him; it’s like he’s starved for oxygen and Derek is the breath he needs to take.

“Thanks. For coming.”

“Any time,” Derek says, nodding as if he’s reassuring himself.

“…will you stay?”

“If you want.”

Stiles rolls over, moving further to the side, and waits. Derek watches him, blank. _Oh, for the love of-_

“Come on, Sourwolf. It’s creepy if you just crouch there.”

He grumbles and says something about getting shot by the sheriff, but in the end, Derek lowers himself onto Stiles’ bed.

If he’s honest, it’s the best sleep he’s had in months.

*

“I’m, like, one thousand percent sure it was supernatural-related,” Stiles says, scrubbing the stainless-steel counter.

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because I felt… _wrong,_ ” he says, scrubbing harder. “and I didn’t hear anything. She was pulled out the window. Scott and Jackson saw something; I _know_ it.”

Deaton continues stocking syringes, infuriatingly calm.

“You think something killed her. Why?”

“I don’t know- do they ever need a reason to kill? The crazy ones? Plus, she was a virgin,” he says, almost babbling. “there could be hundreds of reasons-,”

“-and a thousand for a regular human to do it, too,” Deaton finishes, slow. “It’s not always the supernatural, Stiles.”

_I know that,_ he thinks. _I know, but I know what I felt that night._ He’s not squeamish and he’s not a crier. What happened to Heather…it didn’t just unnerve him. There was something very wrong about it. He wonders if maybe he interrupted the attacker. It seemed messy- like the plan had been to take her or hide her somewhere else.

School is about to start again. There’s only one week left.

Stiles has been working with Deaton over the summer. Somehow he’d ended up picking up shifts for Scott here and there, when werewolfing with Isaac had taken priority over scrubbing Deaton’s floors. He likes it, mostly because it’s one of the only things he can do while still feeling like he’s learning something. He’d intern at the police station, but his father isn’t too keen on it and Stiles knows he’d have to work at night to get in while his dad isn’t around.

“I know it’s something bad,” Stiles says, almost to himself. “I know it.”

*

He shows up at Allison’s house on Friday, ready to run.

“Stiles,” Chris says, opening the door.

He usually isn’t around in the morning; Stiles flounders a bit, trying to come up with something to say, and then Allison jogs over from the kitchen.

“Hey,” she smiles, tapping her father’s shoulder as she slips by him. “ready to go?”

“-yeah,” Stiles says, blinking, unsure of whether he should say something. “Um- bye.”

Allison leads the way, walking at a brisk pace. They usually run a trail, warming up when they get closer. They’re both the kind of runners that like to tune things out with music, so they don’t usually talk, but Allison isn’t wearing earbuds.

“What’s up?” he asks, prodding.

“…my dad says he wants us to stop,” she says, frustration clear on her face.

“Stop?”

“He wants us to stop being Hunters.”

“…can you do that? Just stop? Do you, like, unsubscribe, or-?”

Her smile is brief. Sometimes he’s glad his particular brand of humor can at least distract people. It’s useful; especially when a friend is worried or troubled.

“I don’t know. But…I know _why_ and…and I almost want to,” she says.

_So, that’s why she looks so torn._

“Almost?”

“I mean- I kind of want a normal life. I just- I never really had anything stable. I was so excited when it seemed like my family was going to actually _stay_ here. I was so happy when Lydia became my friend, when I started dating Scott-,”

“But what?”

“But I know how hard it is,” she says, anguished, “and I _know_ now. Can I really just… _stop_? Stop doing anything about something I know exists?”

They’re nearing the edge of the trail. He watches her brace a leg on a bench, stretching, and thinks.

“It’s not your duty to do something,” he reminds her. “There are others.”

“Not in Beacon Hills,” she says. “I mean, Deaton isn’t a Hunter. Dad has connections and experience- he’s invaluable.”

“Okay- but we haven’t had any trouble. Derek’s got his Pack now, Scott’s helping the others out. They’re pretty strong. Don’t you think they can protect Beacon Hills?”

“…maybe,” she sighs, “but who’s going to watch them?”

They finish stretching and he zips up his hoodie, bouncing on his heels and staring down at red shoes for a minute. _It’s not my place to say one thing or another,_ he thinks.

“Whatever you do, you’re still my friend. You’re still family,” he says, firm. “Pack.”

Somehow, just like that, the cloud over her dissipates and her smile threatens to outshine the sun. Stiles winks, pulling his earbuds out of his jacket. Allison extracts hers from her pocket, hooking them around her ears.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

*

The first day of school, he comes into a classroom to find a group of students comforting a weeping girl. They’re assembled at a desk in the far corner, murmuring something.

“What’s going on?”

Scott shrugs, looking concerned. The teacher is nowhere to be seen. They sit in uneasy silence, waiting for the bell and teacher, and Stiles feels his uneasiness grow.

“Listen,” he says, apologetic but firm.

Scott’s brow wrinkles in confusion but he tilts his head a little, concentrating.

“…Lauren. Their friend. She was found in the pool yesterday night.”

The uneasy feeling rises in his chest.

_Something’s happening,_ he thinks. _I just have to figure out what._

*

He tells Scott he’s getting something from his locker during lunch.

The hallway is empty as he walks down it, still fighting an undercurrent of dread. As he walks, the noise of the cafeteria and classrooms dims around him. Everything fades away and he moves on autopilot towards the back doors.

The outside world is gray. The sky is rolling.

He walks towards the empty lacrosse field. The rain made the ground soft overnight; every step squishes beneath his feet unpleasantly. He isn’t thinking, only moving, following some call he can’t hear.

_Something is wrong._

He hears something snap in the distance, by the trees, and his breath catches in his throat. Something emerges.

The first thing he thinks is, _oh, now it’s a mountain lion,_ and then he thinks _I might just die_. The animal’s eyes are glowing unnaturally, something dangerous and scared in its posture. Its ears are flat against its skull as it hisses, crawling along the edge of the field.

He steps back slowly, thinking of all the things his father had told him almost two years ago, when Peter’s activity had been the talk of the town. He wishes he had a gun, or anything to protect himself with.

The animal runs towards him and he thinks _I’ll never make it_.

A roar vibrates in the air, close, and he thinks _that wasn’t the mountain lion._

“Jackson,” he breathes, ears ringing.

His eyes are blue and he’s standing there, right by Stiles, facing off against a freaking mountain lion. _My life is so bizarre. This is so bizarre._ The animal growls, sharp, shifting back a little. Stiles finds himself hoping it’ll just go away. He’s pretty sure someone inside the school has heard the commotion by now and is calling Animal Control or the police.

_And Dad is the last person I need around here._

The mountain lion turns, moving towards the trees, and then a deer sprints from nowhere and kicks the cat aside in its frenzy to get away.

_Away from what?_

“Please tell me that was fucking weird to you, too,” Jackson says.

“Yeah. That was weird.”

*

A few hours later, he’s sitting in class, watching birds crash into the windows.

_What the actual fuck._

People are screaming and the new teacher, bless her poor heart, is clearly unequipped to do anything about the situation. She barely handles it at all.

“If I could just have _one_ normal day,” he mutters under his breath, rubbing his face with tired hands.

_I need to talk to Deaton. Something supernatural is happening in Beacon Hills. Again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come, featuring more heavy Derek/Stiles interaction and the explosion of the Alphas onto the scene. It's going to be fun...


	5. Sweeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of everything, Stiles gets a moment. It's nice to remember what was at the beginning. Meanwhile, the problems multiply. Everything is hanging on the edge...

He is sleeping.

He knows this, somewhere in his mind, aware of the fact but not aware enough to act on the thought. He wanders through his dream like a homeless man, the fabric of the world clinging to him, cobwebs sticking against his skin. The ground is uneven beneath his feet and there is a fog in his mouth.

He walks for however long it is. Time is stretched here, nonsensical and immeasurable, looping and elapsing in remote measurements. Everything spins so fast it doesn’t move.

Eventually, he comes to a clearing. There is a tree, ancient and huge, its trunk twisted with age and something nameless. It curls around itself like a creature in agony, roots twisting into the ground in an effort to contain itself. The tree clings to the ground, a giant trying not to fall under its own weight. There are black streaks radiating from the center of the tree. A pulsing heart lies within, throbbing in time to an unheard drum.

His heart sticks in his throat, mimicking the beat. It’s dangerous here.

Still he approaches the tree, careful even as he wants to turn and run. He shouldn’t be here. His feet move ever closer, bringing him before the blackened behemoth, compelling. His hand reaches towards it, pale and dotted with sun-freckles and moles. He realizes his nails are cracked and ragged, torn at the edges and painted with blood and grime. They don’t hurt.

When he touches the tree, he can feel it pounding. It flinches and contracts away from him, returning with force every other second. It feels sickly. Dark.

Somehow, his panic and fear tug him further out of the dream. He is gaining control. He tries to step back, stumbling, watching as insects crawl from the dark spot on the tree. They clamber over one another, either as desperate as he is or ravenous to devour the green around them. He can see winged creatures making their way out, lights flickering to life.

The fireflies take wing like a million burning suns and he blinks, tripping on something, looking back to raise himself off the ground. His hand touches something fleshy.

When he turns, he sees Melissa. She is lying there, eyes wide and staring, black veins and blood curling like ironworks on her face. Something between a cry and a choke sticks in his throat as he scuttles away instinctually, wanting to help but knowing she is already dead.

His eyes find his father, then. This time whatever is stuck in his throat explodes forward, repulsion and shock and fear resolving themselves into a terrified scream.

This is a nightmare he cannot wake from.

*

“What’s wrong?”

“…I don’t know,” Stiles says, mouth sandpaper, “I mean- sorry. I just…didn’t get enough sleep.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Scott still looks concerned. Stiles smiles- he knows how to, on command; is thankfully able to trick people from years of practice when his mother was sick and then after her death. Scott is one of the only people who can see through him, at times.

He leads the way into the cafeteria, trying to pass off the moment as he grabs a water bottle and tray. Scott still casts occasional glances his way but doesn’t say anything else. They both get lunch, the routine as familiar as a worn-in shoe, loading up before they wander out into the hall to grab seats.

Lydia imperiously waves at them, a queenly gesture that both recognizes and beckons. _That’s new._ Stiles glances at Scott, taking in his bemused shrug.

“You’re helping Jackson,” she says as soon as they sit. She’s talking to Scott, of course.

“Um-,”

“Jackson? Get help?” Stiles interjects, unable to stop his mouth. Not enough sleep and the medicine- lack of it, too much…

The boy in question shoots him a glare, halfhearted. Something in his manner is not as standoffish as it was before. Unsettling. He suspects it has something to do with the basement.

“I know you know more about this than he does. He needs help, for now. No guarantees or promises- he just needs direction.”

Scott looks at Jackson, all concern and hopefulness. _I sure hope I don’t have to drag him out of trouble later,_ Stiles thinks.

“Are you sure you want my help?”

“Look, I know you know more about this shit than me and I’m not stupid,” Jackson says, grudging but sharp, “I don’t want to _kill_ anybody.”

The second half, they all know, is the part that matters. Especially since he’d been a kanima for a while. Scott looks to Stiles, allowing input. He wants to say _why are you looking at me, I’m not a werewolf,_ but he settles for raising his eyebrows. A vague enough gesture to inspire forethought but not enough to be considered disapproving.

“If you want my help, I need to know you’ll follow my rules.”

“Rules?”

“It’s to keep you safe,” Scott says, reassuring. He hesitates then, thinking, “If you want to consider first, you could talk to Isaac. I’ve been helping him, too.”

Jackson and Lydia glance at each other. Lydia gives him a wide-eyed look, prompting. Jackson sighs through his nose, fingers tapping the table briefly.

“Okay.”

*

When he gets to the clinic, Derek is waiting for him. He blinks, hesitating.

He can still feel the man’s stubble on his cheeks when he closes his eyes at night.

“Stiles.”

“Yes. Um…Derek. What are you doing here?” _Smooth, Casanova. Very smooth._

“I…wanted to make sure you were all right. I heard about the mountain lion.”

“Who told you?” he asks, curiosity and surprise overcoming the awkwardness.

“Allison, actually.”

“ _Allison_? Why-,”

“Her father wanted to talk to me. About them being Hunters,” he clarifies, following Stiles inside.

“Right, I guessed,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow, “but why did she tell you about what happened?”

Derek pauses, frowning, watching Stiles grab a paper on one of the counters. Deaton’s afternoon list. He’s on house calls so Stiles is left to do some menial tasks while Scott werewolfs it up with Isaac and Jackson.

“…you aren’t surprised I was talking to her.”

“Question mark,” Stiles says, correcting, smiling to himself at Derek’s familiar non-questioning, “of course not. She’s smarter than people give her credit for. Stronger. I’m not surprised she went over. She probably wore her crossbow or something, right?”

“…bow and arrows, actually.”

“Good for you,” Stiles says, congratulatory, “that means she’s less compelled to kill you quickly. Means there’s hope.”

Derek is actively smiling. _Smiling._ It makes two almost-dimples appear, almost hidden by his stubble, and Stiles fucking melts in his shoes. He’s very tempted to… _well, no one’s here, right?_ He steps up to Derek, barely registering the surprise in the man’s eyes, a hand pressing at the back of his neck to bring him closer.

He resists the urge to sigh when they kiss, shocked at how comfortable it feels, like he’s slipping into his red sneakers. Somehow they’re just the right height, spaces lining up just enough to feel like they fit together. Derek tastes inexplicably like mint and something sweet. This close, Stiles could open his eyes to count the freckles and marvel at the man’s stupidly pretty eyelashes.

“…did you chew gum before you got here?”

Derek blinks, dazed. Stiles feels suddenly very proud that he caused this. Very, very proud.

“What? Um-,” he tries to find words, a blush dusting over his cheeks. Stiles feels a grin start to split across his face.

“You _did,_ ” he says, wanting to giggle but forcing himself not to. _I’m already in high school,_ he thinks, _I’m not going to make myself look any more childish_. “Oh, my _God_.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, more fond than angry, “or I’ll rip your throat out.”

“With your teeth?” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows.

Derek rolls his eyes, moving away to inspect the paper on the counter, arms braced on it as he leans over. Stiles gets distracted by the man’s jeans and the way they hug his-

 _Oh, he’s doing that on **purpose** , _Stiles realizes, scowling at Derek’s half-hidden smirk.

“So, what are you here for? Being a delinquent werewolf father while you watch me work?”

He whaps Derek with the broom as he moves past him, half-wishing his hand were the broom handle. He has to force himself to concentrate on his work.

“…I was hoping to talk to Deaton.”

“Really? What for?”

Derek chews his lip. Stiles waits patiently. _He’ll tell me,_ he thinks, _by choice or by coercion._ The man levers himself up onto the table in the center of the room smoothly, which is not attractive or sexy at all. Nope. _I’m so screwed._

“…I’m not sure I want to tell Scott.”

“Did you just kiss Scott?”

A long-suffering glare and sigh later, Stiles smirks and Derek opens his mouth again.

“There was something on my door the other day. A warning, I think.”

“From who?”

“…I’m not sure,” he says slowly, “It’s…strange.”

“How so?”

“It seems like something it can’t be.”

“Hey,” Stiles snorts, “this is _Beacon Hills_. You should know better by now.”

Derek smiles ruefully and Stiles almost crosses the room to kiss him again. Almost. He knows better than to distract, though. Whatever is going on, Derek needs to get it out in the open.

“Yeah. I should.”

He doesn’t offer anything else. Stiles figures it’s a lot of sharing for someone like Derek. He’s generally closed-off and hesitant to begin with; he can’t imagine the internal conflict going on at the moment. He’s talking to Stiles, whom he’d presumably found abhorrent until quite recently. _Which…_

“Why don’t you hate me anymore?” he blurts, realizing. Derek stares at him like he has four heads. “I mean- I just…this is a little bit of a three-sixty.”

“That’s a complete circle.”

“Oh, fuck the shut up, asshole.” He earns a raised eyebrow for that. Stiles wonders how the eyebrow hasn’t gotten lost in the man’s hairline yet.

“I never hated you.” Now it’s Stiles’ time to stare, disbelieving and a little insulted.

“Yeah- so you just typically slam your best friend’s head into steering wheels? Threaten to rip people’s throats out as a greeting? Bang-,”

“That wasn’t-,”

“I swear to God, if you tell me that was flirting-,”

“Stiles,” Derek says, short but not angry. Stiles pauses, remembering to give him time. _Slow down._ “I…I’m a born wolf. We have different…tolerances, remember?”

“…so…you’re saying you forgot I was human?”

Derek looks sheepish. Stiles just stares, trying to wrap his head around it.

“I’m saying I was always used to being around werewolves,” he says, “and I was just…frustrated. Not only because of what happened to Laura but the fact that…I just didn’t know what to do. I know it’s not an excuse. I don’t mean for it to be.”

“Damn straight,” Stiles mutters, propping the broom up in the closet. He inches up next to Derek, not even half as graceful, “I just…you threatened me _a lot_.”

“I know,” Derek says, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, “I’m a moron.”

Stiles gapes and Derek to look somehow both sorry and defensive. Stiles tries to dial it back, reminding himself that Scott gave him a fair share of bruises, too. Maybe there’s room for improvement on their part. Maybe he’s also supposed to step up and remind them they’re still half human. _Not that I’ll stick around if that doesn’t work._

“Okay. Well…now we don’t bang our friends into things. Just…bang each other,” he winks, smirking.

Derek rolls his eyes but Stiles can feels the man’s hand cover his own. It makes his heart do some ridiculous aerobatics in his chest. He realizes Derek can probably hear it but at this point he doesn’t care. _It’s not like he doesn’t know how I feel._

He enjoys the moment of peace, something in the back of his mind telling him he probably won’t get another one for a long time.

*

He hasn’t seen Erica or Boyd in weeks.

They’d gone after everything that had happened, of course, presumably to try and figure out what they wanted. If they could maybe make it on their own, he thinks. He hadn’t been able to fight them; not really. It was his fault, after all. He’d been a fairly shitty mentor.

Still. He’s worried. They’re young and inexperienced despite their relative strengths. They’re survivors but surviving isn’t living. He’s starting to realize that.

“How long am I going to be under house arrest?”

“Until you learn how to shut up,” Derek replies, his uncle’s silky tone grating to his ears.

“When I’m an aging billionaire, I’ll remember to exclude you from my will,” Peter says, raising an eyebrow, petulant.

“You’re already aging.”

Peter gives him a _really_ look but Derek ignores it, wandering into the kitchen.

“You’re brooding.”

He wants to say _I’m not_ but resists the urge. He’d like to think he’s more adult than his uncle. It’s very, _very_ difficult to be. _What’s that saying about dragging other people down…_

“Shouldn’t you be transferring the Bestiary?”

“‘Monster Book of Monsters,’” Peter corrects. It’s Stiles’ pet name for the database.

Derek stops a growl in mid-throat, the vague rumble still audible to his enhanced hearing. Peter smirks. _Bastard_. He’s always smug when he gets what he wants.

“Maybe you should be doing that instead of bothering me.”

“…you know they’re coming. They probably have your Betas.”

Derek pauses, glass in his hand. The dread in his chest solidifies, twisting, worming its way into his heart. He can feel its fingers gripping him.

“We don’t know that,” he says quietly, fingernail scratching the glass in his hands.

“Don’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little respite and some fluffiness for you. Soon, things will get much messier...


	6. Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Stiles becomes increasingly concerned about the weirder-than-usual events in Beacon Hills, Derek decides to let the others in on his current problems. With an Alpha Pack hiding and Erica and Boyd missing, they're all going to have to communicate if they want to have a chance of making it out alive.

He wakes in the grip of another dream- nightmare, really. He is shaking, sweaty and unsteady, trying to shake off the feeling of being hunted. Whatever it is, he feels like it’s been following him out of sleep lately. He pushes hair away from his forehead, sticky in the dark, breathing as evenly as he can to get his heart under control.

His bare feet hit the floor, the cold grounding. The clock reads five a.m. and all he knows is that he has to get out. He pulls his shoes on haphazardly, grabbing a hoodie and pulling it on as he makes his way out. He is painfully aware of the noises he makes, trying to be as silent as possible when he slips down the stairs.

Hopefully his father won’t think much of Stiles being gone when he wakes up. All he knows is that he has to get to Deaton. Has to know what he’s feeling is real. It’s happening.

*

She was going to get dinner.

It’s been a long week and her mother isn’t home. She’s alone; the very thing she’s been avoiding all summer. Jackson is with Scott and Isaac, presumably learning how to control himself and use his new power. She would have gone, but…

…it feels too close to death. She does, too.

When she leaves the house, her feet pass the car. She walks into the woods. It’s as if her body is on autopilot and she is simply the passenger, watching where she is taken. Where she’s taking herself. She moves through the trees, eyes wide, not sure what she’s following. Her tongue feels fuzzy in her mouth and everything is too dark.

Her shoe hits something, the toe catching and almost throwing her to the ground. Her hand instinctively reaches for a tree, scratching her palm but keeping her from falling. When she looks down, part of her already knows what she’s going to find.

The girl’s eyes are staring at nothing and Lydia can barely hold the scream in her throat. She pulls her phone to her ear, blinking, holding her breath. Part of her is relieved when she hears the man’s familiar voice on the other end.

“ _Sheriff’s department. This is Stilinski-,_ ”

“I found a body.”

*

Stiles pulls up to the side of the road, anxious, fingers tapping the steering wheel. He can already see Jackson and Scott in the distance, barely ahead of him. He swings out of the car, the dull throb of seeing Lydia cooled by the issue at hand.

“Stiles,” Scott says, acknowledging.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’m supposed to call you when I find a dead body?” Lydia asks, clearly rattled but still levelheaded.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, nearly shouting in his frustration.

Jackson shoots him a look- warning, which is funny because Lydia is stronger than that. She gives Stiles her own brand of unimpressed stare and he sighs, tugging at his hair. He’s been forgetting to cut it, with everything going on.

“Who is it?” he asks, trying to focus.

“I don’t know. A girl from school, I think.”

“…was it the same?”

This time Scott gives him a look. The patented remonstration; a gentle warning to back off. Stiles gets it. He does. It’s traumatizing and horrible and wrong but he has to ask. Has to ask because he’s running on fumes and still hasn’t seen Deaton. He knows something is going on.

“Maybe? I don’t know. She didn’t look the same at all and they didn’t know each other. I would have known if it were one of Heather’s friends.”

_So what connects them?_ He has to know. His only options are to ask his father- which will likely not work- or try to find out for himself.

His first step, though, is going to be to talk to Deaton.

*

“Stiles, you need sleep.”

“Yes, yes, I do- but first, I need you to tell me I’m not crazy.”

The man shoots him an unimpressed look, raising an eyebrow as he turns from the cabinet he’s stocking. His arms cross over his chest and he pauses before answering.

“You’re not crazy. Just sleep deprived.”

“No,” Stiles argues, “Listen. One is an incident, two is a coincidence, three is a pattern. This is a pattern- she’s the third girl killed in two weeks. There’s a reason-,”

“Maybe. You need to let the police-,”

“Oh, the _police_ \- you mean the police who had to chalk up the first murder spree to a mountain lion because it was actually a werewolf, which they didn’t know about?”

Deaton sighs, rubbing his brow. Stiles always takes it as a good sign when someone resigns themselves to his persistence. It means he’s worn them down enough to get them to listen. _I have all the evidence I need,_ he thinks, _it’ll explain itself._

“I know you think you know better. It’s sometimes better to let these people do their jobs first.”

He feels like he’s beating against a concrete door. There is no getting through.

“Believe me, I want to be as wrong as you think I am- but I’m not. Something is going on and we are ignoring it. It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better, if it ever does.”

The man is guarded as always. Stiles can’t tell if he’s hiding something or just tired of listening to a teenager argue a supposedly stupid point. At least, he thinks, he’s made himself heard. Whatever happens from here will be on the others for not acting as much as it’ll be on him for not being able to figure it out alone.

If he can’t figure it out.

_There’s a pattern,_ he thinks, _I just have to find it._ Find it and stop the next one before it starts.

*

“ _I need to talk to Scott._ ”

“Um…we don’t live together-,”

“ _I know. I just…wanted to let you know. It’s important._ ”

He’s not sure what part Derek means is important- telling him, or talking to Scott. Maybe both. He slips his shoes on, already heading down the staircase as he talks.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, something like relief in his voice as he exhales, “we’re meeting at my place.”

“Peter with you?” he asks conversationally because Peter is a sore topic.

Not that Stiles trusts the homicidal werewolf. He really doesn’t, especially after he used Lydia. Still…he knows being pushed out can be painful when it’s family doing the pushing. He’d felt a fraction of what Peter did, he thinks, when Scott had been preoccupied with his new life and friends. Not that he holds it against Scott; it’s his fault in the first place.

It’s just that he knows exclusion and it doesn’t feel good.

He drives to Derek’s as the evening sky darkens from grapefruit to blood orange. The roads are mostly empty- it may be the first month of school but no one’s going out on a Wednesday. When he arrives, Scott isn’t there yet- he’s not sure whether he should wait or go up. On one hand, Scott probably wouldn’t expect him to go up alone. On the other…well. He hasn’t seen Derek in a while and Peter isn’t enough to deter him. The older man is just another reason to go up.

He knocks on the door, hands in the pockets of his jeans. It’s not cold enough to layer up yet but the weather demands a jacket, so it’s his red hoodie as usual. He’s considered wearing black before, to make himself less of a target to supernatural beasts. He knows now that it probably wouldn’t help, so…red.

“Stiles.”

“Hey, sourwolf,” he says cheerily, moving forward until Derek steps aside, “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. The infamous eyebrow. Stiles smirks, looking around the bare space. He thinks he would probably go a little crazy in such an empty place.

Peter is sitting on one of the couches, looking petulant as he flips through a book. It’s leathery and old, cracked on the cover and practically falling apart. With a laptop on his legs and a glass of something by his side, Peter looks like a rebellious archivist.

“Hey, creeper wolf. Imitating a sexy librarian?” _Oh my god,_ he thinks as soon as the words fly out, _what the fuck, Stiles._

Sarcasm really is his only defense mechanism.

“Stiles,” Peter purrs, eyes gleaming, “the highest of compliments from the highest of minds. I am flattered.”

“Flattery,” Stiles quips, pleased by the response, “and insults raise the same question.”

“So, what is it you require, Red?”

If there’s one thing he ever understood about Peter, it is the man’s dedication to protecting his interests. He had been betrayed by everyone- or he thought so; maybe still does. The only thing left to Peter had been saving his own skin and exacting revenge. Now, with Derek keeping his uncle close, there’s a different paradigm at work. Peter is no longer an enemy…but he’s not quite a friend. The man still wants what’s best for him. The real question is whether that aligns with what’s best for Stiles and his friends.

“Let’s call it…advance warning,” Stiles says, spreading his hands. He can feel Derek staring holes into the back of his head. “You know, before you become manic again.”

Peter grins, more teeth than warmth. Stiles can imagine a big cat lounging, watching the humans outside its cage as if thinking of how it could devour them. _He’s dangerous, all right- and powerful. He’d make a good ally._

“If I do, you will be the _first_ to know,” Peter reassures, eyes twinkling.

Derek steps closer, probably about to interrupt their weird half-conversation, and then someone knocks on the door.

“That’ll be Scott,” Peter says helpfully, which is interesting. Derek doesn’t need to be told; he has a werewolf nose.

The information was for Stiles. He smiles, pleased, and catches Peter’s eyes. The man winks briefly, burying himself back in his book with the look of one studiously pretending to ignore everything around them.

“Stiles?” Scott looks vaguely confused.

“Hey. Guess it’s that important,” Stiles says, leaning back in his seat. Derek shoots him a look.

_Shit,_ Stiles thinks. They haven’t all three been in a room together since…

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about,_ he repeats mentally. _Definitely don’t think about kissing Derek. DO NOT._

“What’s going on?”

“I…haven’t heard from Erica and Boyd for a while now.”

“I noticed they weren’t at school…I just thought they were maybe doing something else,” Scott says, concerned, “When did you last hear from them?”

“…early summer,” Derek says, looking guilty, “right after everything that happened.”

“That long?” Stiles interrupts, incredulous. Now that he knows for certain how much Derek really cares, he can’t understand why the man didn’t say anything before.

“I didn’t think they were in trouble,” Derek says, crossing his arms.

“But you do now?” Scott asks.

“A few days ago, someone painted a symbol on the front door of the house. This.”

Derek puts a paper down on the table. Stiles frowns, looking at the interconnected lines and triangle. It looks like…

“It’s an Alpha Pack,” Derek says.

“…how does that _work_?” Stiles asks, head spinning. _There’s supposed to be a balance._ Werewolf packs are all about hierarchy. The three spirals of Derek’s tattoo are meant to represent it. “Why the hell are they here?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, answering both questions at once, “I just know they’re dangerous. One Alpha is bad enough; if it’s a pack, there might be at least five.”

“Five Alphas,” Scott murmurs, arms crossed, “You think they have Erica and Boyd?”

“Have them, are with them, did…I don’t know,” Derek amends, stopping before he says what they’re all thinking.

If there’s an Alpha Pack, there’s a chance that Erica and Boyd are already dead. Stiles bites his tongue, one knee jumping nervously as he tries to come up with a plan.

“Erica and Boyd _know_ Beacon Hills,” he says, “if they’re hiding, it’ll be somewhere only we can find them.”

“So, we check those places,” Scott agrees, “and find them before the Alphas do.”

“They may already be gone,” Derek says, “they may have left Beacon Hills at the beginning of the summer.”

“You don’t believe that,” Stiles dismisses, standing to walk around and churn away at the energy in his limbs, “They stayed. Either they’re captured or they’re hiding. We need to know which, as soon as possible.”

“I’ll get Jackson and Isaac to look with me,” Scott says, “None of us should be alone out there.”

_Isn’t that true._ He feels a little relieved, knowing there’s something he can put his energy into. He’s not happy that Erica and Boyd are missing but at least he knows he can do something about it. _I knew something was…_

Oh. He wants to say something- mention the mountain lion at the school and the strange feeling creeping into the back of his mind when he’s half awake at night. He really wants to explain, say _there’s this thing, you know, don’t you feel it?_ He wants to but he knows Deaton has already said it’s nothing and the man is pretty much an authority. Telling Derek and Scott won’t do much but worry them.

He swallows his words and listens as Scott and Derek talk about hiding places.

*

“They’re missing?”

“Yeah. Or at least hiding.”

Allison leans back on her heels, biting her lip. She looks worried but not distressed. He’s grateful to share the knowledge; she deserves to know and if anything, not carrying it around like a weight makes him feel much less anxious.

They’re sitting in her room, Allison going through a case of weapons while Stiles sits against her dresser. He’d gone to her house almost as soon as he’d left Derek’s, thinking only that he needed to make a backup plan and inform someone outside of the werewolf-pack-club.

“They’re all going to look for them,” she says, prompting. He can hear the question in her voice.

“I thought I needed to tell your dad- I mean, it’s werewolf business but only until the Alphas start terrorizing the town. As long as someone knows…well. Maybe we can poke around a bit, too. You have safe spots in the woods, right?”

He already knows the answer. She’d shown him one near his house once, on a weekend jog. _Just in case,_ she’d said, smiling and pushing a strand of hair back from her face. _I’ll get you a copy of the key when we get back._

“Maybe we should let them go first,” she says, “or tell them what we’re doing. They _are_ a pack of Alphas.”

“Okay. Yeah. They might not want us to go, though.”

“Tough,” she smiles, a fierceness betraying her sweet smile, “Gear up, Batman. Time to go hunting.”

*

“You can’t go out there.”

“Told you,” Stiles sings quietly, raising both eyebrows as he walks in a slow circle. She ignores the comment, facing off against Derek with crossed arms. She can see Scott holding his words back.

It makes her a little angry. She wishes he’d say something if he wants to say something, not hold it in because they’re no longer together. Because she’s hurting. _We both hurt a little,_ she thinks, _but we’re not dead yet._

“It’s not your choice,” Allison reminds him, “as a Hunter, it’s my job to make sure Beacon Hills is safe- not just from you but for you. That includes making sure no outsiders come in or interfere with your Pack.”

“It’s dangerous,” Derek repeats. He isn’t flat-out forbidding it, thank goodness; she thinks that may be Stiles’ influence at work. She’ll grant that he’s listening but not that he’s understanding.

“Don’t worry. We have wolfsbane,” she says, tilting her chin. _Tell me no again._

Peter shifts on Derek’s couch, amusement dancing in his eyes. His presence makes her feel a little cold. She still can’t trust him and doesn’t expect him to be truthful. Stiles had told her he’d made sure Peter would warn him- _don’t ask, I think he thinks I’m interesting or something_ \- but she can’t rely on the whim of a man who killed his niece.

“I’ll go with them,” Peter says conversationally, resting his chin on his open palm, “They’ll be safe with me.”

“Did you really just say that?” Stiles asks, snorting. He turns his attention to the other Hale in the room, looking like he’s just come out of a five-step plan in his mind. “We’re going, Derek. They’re our friends. Peter can come along- not that we need him- but I’m sure if we run into Alphas they’ll run a mile with one whiff of his psycho smell.”

“Psychopath is such an outdated term,” Peter murmurs.

“It’s a bad idea,” Derek says. It’s not an argument.

Allison shifts her crossbow, feeling the familiar weight rest against her back. She always feels safe with a weapon on her, especially now that she knows she needs one. All she can think of is Erica and Boyd hiding somewhere, trying to stay alive. They may not have known each other that well but she’d always been willing to make new friends in the supernatural world. They’d seemed…loyal, the few times she’d run into them.

_They probably don’t think of me too kindly after attacking them._

“Bad idea? Perfect for us, then,” Stiles smiles, stepping back to stand by Allison. She appreciates the gesture, recognizing the subtle reinforcement of his trust in her. It makes her feel immeasurably warm to know someone- a human, just like her- trusts her so much. “We’ll go tonight.”

“Meet us at seven at Stiles’ house,” Allison says, not looking at Peter as she speaks, “and try not to stay downwind. I won’t drag you home if you end up with a nose full of wolfsbane.”

“Oh, I’m going to enjoy this,” he says, chuckling darkly. She tries to ignore the shiver the sound sends up her spine.

Stiles is there, though, a reassuring presence as he flips Peter off and opens the door for her. As they leave, she almost wants to look back and ask Scott what he thinks. _Didn’t you want to say something?_ Part of her knows it’s too soon, though. Too soon and too much danger to really count on a clear answer.

Besides, she doesn’t need to depend on a boyfriend. She’s got Stiles to depend on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept getting interrupted while writing. Well, here's the next tidbit...we're bringing in the big players. Soon enough the Darach is going to make things five hundred times more complicated. For now, though, enjoy the power of friendship!


	7. Diplomacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pack gear up for a confrontation with the Alphas. This, at least, is a threat Stiles can bite into. He's starting to get the hang of the weird supernatural rules. A little.

They stand outside of Allison’s house, Chris tense and glaring as Peter grins unabashedly. Stiles has to silently count to ten, trying to stay level-headed. They don’t have time for this.

“You shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Dad-,” Allison starts, protesting, until Peter cuts her off.

“No, he’s right. It’s dangerous. That’s why I’m going with you.”

“That doesn’t comfort me,” Chris says, eyes piercing.

Stiles is tapping his foot on the grass, thinking only that Erica and Boyd are somewhere. They don’t have time to turn on each other; there are enough people against them already. Werewolves, actually.

“We’ll be safe,” Stiles says firmly, “and we know how to handle ourselves. Besides, I have him on a leash. Right, Fido?”

It’s a huge fucking risk but he takes it anyways, knowing Peter is half likely to rip his throat out. Half likely and entirely tempted. He blinks, hoping that he doesn’t die, before the man’s lips twist into a pleased smirk.

“Woof.”

-

“They’re all locked,” Allison explains, “so watch my back when I open them.”

They’re moving through the forest, dead leaves and earth damp beneath their feet. It’s quiet. He can hear crickets every now and then, soft sounds of insects and other things moving around them. He has to force himself to concentrate, focusing his energy on the task at hand.

The first safe room is hidden in a clump of trees. It’s almost invisible, the entrance disguised as the ruins of an old hunting blind. Allison pulls on a long chain at her neck, using the key at the end to unlock it.

“No sign of forced entry,” she says, slipping in against the wall.

Stiles follows close behind, keeping to the other edge. It’s dark and cool, the feeling of being beneath pressing in around him. It’s empty.

“Well, that’s good,” he mutters, opening a bag of mountain ash, “let’s just check for opened ones. If they’re locked, they’re probably empty. Werewolves don’t pick locks; they forget that’s an option.”

“You’re right about that,” she smiles.

The next two are locked. The one after is not.

“Peter,” Stiles murmurs, on guard.

Allison pulls her crossbow close, inching the door open. It is just as dark as the others inside. They slip down, prepared, the air somehow less stale inside.

“They’ve been in here,” she says, surveying the area, “no dust.”

“…blood on the floor,” Stiles adds quietly, checking every corner.

“They wouldn’t keep them anywhere like this long,” Peter says, eyes glowing in the darkness, “They need room. They’re Alphas.”

“So where would they go?” Allison asks, starting her mountain ash circle at the edge of the room.

“…somewhere big,” Peter says, backing out of the door, “And when they find it, we won’t have much time.”

As they leave the safe house, Stiles feels his phone buzz. He pulls it out, answering the call expectantly.

“ _Stiles. We got a scent. Faint,_ ” Derek says.

“They used a safe room recently,” Stiles says, motioning for Allison and Peter to follow him towards his car, “Peter thinks they’re looking for a larger space.”

“ _Makes sense,_ ” Derek says, “ _The trail we picked up was by the downtown area, near some industrial spaces. Maybe they’re using one._ ”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. He swings into the Jeep, turning the key and getting ready to drive. He knows where to go.

“Okay. Listen. We need to go in but we can’t just rush. They’ll be ready; we need to be to. We can’t mess this up.”

“ _Meet back at my place. We’re going in tonight._ ”

He doesn’t argue. He can do that when he gets to the apartment. Allison catches his eye as he turns the steering wheel, an eyebrow raised. She already knows where things are going.

He thinks at least he’ll have her backing him up. She’s not the worst supporter he could have.

-

“We need to go,” Derek says as soon as he walks in the door.

“I mean, hello to you too,” Stiles replies, irked.

Derek has the good grace to look sorry. Peter follows close behind, casting an unimpressed look at his nephew. Stiles gets the feeling that Peter is often unimpressed by Derek; he’s not sure yet whether that’s a good or bad thing.

“They’re at an old bank,” Scott says, “We think they’re using the space to keep them locked up.”

“We can’t rush in,” Stiles says, “We don’t know how many of them there are.”

“Erica and Boyd have been kept in for at least one full moon,” Derek says, “if they’re being forced not to change-,”

“It could be making them insane,” Peter finishes, casting Stiles a meaningful look.

 _Okay,_ he thinks. _So that’s out of the question._ They can’t just leave them locked up, but he doesn’t want to bust in either. They need to be smart about it.

“Okay. Okay- obviously, they’re trying to draw out the Pack, right? Whichever one they think there is?”

“Probably,” Derek says, “but I’m not going to-,”

“No, you’re right,” Stiles continues quickly, “that’s not how it works. Deaton said there’s a way to do these things. You need an Emissary.”

Scott looks at Stiles, questioning. _Deaton?_ Stiles resolves to talk about it later, preferably when lives aren’t on the line. Derek shakes his head, looking around the room.

“We don’t have an Emissary, Stiles.”

“They don’t know that.”

He can hear water dripping somewhere in Derek’s loft. _What a dump,_ Stiles thinks fondly, keeping eye contact. He sees the realization enter Derek’s eyes, followed by defiance and anger and fear. Peter chuckles.

“I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“You can’t go,” Scott says, “Stiles, they could really hurt you.”

“They won’t. They’re an _alpha_ pack. They have rules to follow, too. If they break them, they’re in the wrong and it’s open season.”

“My dad won’t stand by and let this happen,” Allison agrees, answering his unspoken question. _Even if he’s been wanting to quit._ “Erica and Boyd are still minors and for all we know, the other attacks have been by the alphas, too.”

He doesn’t believe the second part. It doesn’t make sense. Still, it’s as good a reason as any to get the help of an experienced hunter. Derek looks at Scott as if asking for help. Isaac watches, eyebrows raised.

Jackson and Lydia are both at the edges. Stiles notices, with worry, that they aren’t really joining in. He wonders if it’s by virtue of Jackson’s past or maybe because they just don’t want to be involved any more. Either way, he thinks they need to have a say.

“This isn’t just my decision,” he says, making sure to face them directly, “If I go, I’ll be going in with Allison- but I’ll need a wolf with me. Someone to make it believable.”

“I’ll go,” Jackson says readily, catching his eye.

Scott glances between them, brow furrowed as if he’s questioning Jackson’s motives. Still, he sighs and gives in.

“Okay. If you all can go in and talk to them, find out what’s going on, maybe we can do this peacefully. If not, we’ll be watching.”

“As always,” Stiles says, winking at Derek. The man rolls his eyes but he looks prepared. Ready to watch their backs.

Comforting- except they’re walking into a den of wolves. Literally.

-

Stiles decides to take the extra second to make himself dangerous.

He chooses carefully, knowing there may be an emergency. Knowing he’ll have to be ready for anything.

“Extract,” he says, passing the bottle to Allison, “wolfsbane with mountain ash. It’s potent.”

She raises her eyebrows, smiling as she tips it onto her pulse points. It glimmers on her neck, barely there. He knows the wolves will smell it.

“What about you?”

“I opt for danger,” he smirks, tipping some ashes into his palm, “just some good ‘ole fire. Animals have an instinctual reaction to it. The smell of burning.”

She smiles, twirling a dagger into its holster. She passes one to him, questioning, and he accepts it. He pauses as he clips it onto his pocket, thinking.

“…could I borrow a gun? Black, preferably.”

“Firepower,” she notes, raising both eyebrows.

“I’m used to it,” he says, pulling off his hoodie, “I think I need to fix my hair.”

“Here,” she says, turning him with gloved hands, “let me.”

She works quietly and he waits, watching his face in the mirror behind her. They are at her house, preparing. Peter and Jackson are waiting upstairs, presumably being held at bay by Chris. The others are outside, ready to follow. He thinks they’re antsy to go but he doesn’t want to walk in looking half-done.

_When we walk in, I want them to remember us._

“You’re sure about this?” she asks quietly.

“…they were held by Gerard once,” he says, glancing down at her, “he took me, too.”

She looks surprised but not sorry. That’s what he likes about her. She understands the difference between her actions and the actions of her family. _Self-aware._ A quality to hold in high esteem.

“What happened?”

“I was beat up. They were more affected, though. I need to get them back,” he says, nodding, “and I will.”

When they get upstairs, Jackson and Peter visibly inch away from Allison. He smiles, knowing the oil will do its job. Chris looks at Stiles, noticing the gun. He doesn’t question it.

“Scott and Isaac went to set up the perimeter,” he says, “and I’ll be right behind them. Derek wanted to talk to you before you left.”

“What about Lydia?”

“I’m staying here,” she says, appearing in the kitchen doorway, “It’s the best place to be for now- and if you need help when you get back, this is the best place to take them.”

She looks determined. Determined and beautiful, as always. He nods, accepting her answer, and turns to walk out the door. Derek is waiting there, some vague mixture of confusion and intrigue crossing his face before he hands something to Stiles.

“Here. Wear it.” Stiles almost chokes on air, fighting the urge to snort.

“Your jacket?” _Really, Der?_ Derek ignores him, looking away for a second. _Holy shit, he’s blushing._

“Yes. Just wear it.”

“Okay, sourwolf.” He holds his hands up, slipping it on. He almost moans at how nice it feels- still warm, perfectly worn in and soft on the inside, just a little big…

“Time to go,” Allison says, gently reminding him with a smile lingering on her lips.

“Yes. Right. Okay- let’s go.”

He swings into the Jeep, propping the handle of the metal bat next to him up further. It’s wedged between the seat and the console, ready for use. Jackson and Peter climb into the back, silent.

_Time to save the others._

-

He walks up to the door, pausing. Allison is at his left, Jackson to his right. Peter is behind him- he finds it bizarre how comforting that thought is. He is protected on all sides, ready for anything.

He opens the door, walking in without looking around the space. He knows the layout; he’d found the blueprints almost immediately when he knew it was the place they were going. He ignores the structure because he knows Peter will be looking- _and if I don’t look, I appear more confident._

There are people- werewolves- waiting. Ridiculously buff twins, a woman, a man- and someone else. A man wearing dark glasses, standing in the center of the room with a cane like he’s some sort of movie villain.

Stiles almost points out the bad cliché before biting his tongue, remembering he’s playing a character. _A character that is fearless and powerful._ He comes to a halt a few feet before the Alphas, waiting. He sees the man in glasses smirk, opening his mouth- _they don’t know the rules,_ he seems to think- and then Stiles cuts him off before he can start.

“You have entered Beacon Hills. This territory is claimed. You have taken two of our pack.”

He does not welcome them. They’re not welcome and he’s only doing the bare minimum required of an Emissary. At least, he thinks he is. He’s picked up bits and pieces; he knows he’s missing things.

The man pauses, fingers lacing slowly. Pondering. His smile grows. _Smart move._

“They were at the edge of the territory. We didn’t hear them claim their pack.”

“They’re young,” Stiles says, smiling in mock politeness, “and there are so many to keep track of. You understand.”

Insinuating there are more of them. That they are powerful. Outnumber the Alphas. He knows the man is evaluating him- trying to gauge whether he’s lying or not. Stiles is good at lying, though- good at hiding the truth. Not that he likes it. He just learned long ago to pretend he’s fine when he’s not, or stronger than his human body.

“I am Deucalion. This is my pack.” He glances at the other wolves. Stiles doesn’t follow his gaze; he keeps his eyes locked on Deucalion. _He’s the Alpha. He’s the one in charge here._

“We have come to retrieve our…wayward pack members,” Stiles says, _don’t ask for them back, you’re taking them back,_ “We appreciate your cooperation.”

“…you’re human,” Deucalion says, shifting his weight, “You have a human girl with you, too.”

A threat and a question. Stiles mirrors Deucalion’s position, bringing his bat to rest in front of him with a small _tap_. He waits long enough for the sound to echo, gathering his thoughts and words before he speaks again.

All he wants to do is scream and sic Peter on all of them. Instead, he reminds himself to concentrate.

“This is one of our Hunter attachés,” Stiles says, knowing Allison will enjoy the title, “we work very closely with them.” He emphasizes the word _one,_ knowing that hints are all that are needed to make the Alphas think twice.

A pause is all he needs. A pause is a chance.

“How…unique,” Deucalion smiles, “yet you seem to be missing the very person I so desperately wish to speak to.”

“Desperately?” Stiles asks, suppressing a smile when the alpha twitches in annoyance, “Well. Perhaps you’ll get the chance, once our members return and we can conduct a proper introduction. It’ll be such a learning experience.”

 _For you,_ he doesn’t say, knowing the ambiguity will sting. He sees the twins hold back growls, eyeing him as if they want nothing more than to tear his head off.

 _This is what power must feel like,_ he thinks, glad that his heartbeat is already fast from his metabolism. He’s starting to get why Peter is so crazy about it. Not to the point of murder, though. He’s not crazy.

“I have a proposition for the leader of your pack. Unfortunately, Emissaries and girls playing at Hunter don’t interest me. Your pack bodyguards, however…”

The woman and man move slowly to circling positions. _Fuck._ He can already tell this won’t end well. He knows Scott, Isaac, and Chris are probably preparing to join the fight. It’s the last thing he wants- in the confusion, they could lose Erica and Boyd. Or even more people.

He crosses his arms. _That should have been enough time,_ he thinks.

“Consider yourself lucky, then,” he says, voice dangerously low, just below what a human could hear over the distance, “the Alpha’s not a patient man.”

Derek drops from behind Deucalion, presumably having dusted himself off after punching through concrete. _God, that was hot,_ Stiles thinks, swallowing his excitement at the sight. It’s really badass. Deucalion turns, his wolves quickly adjusting their positions, tense. The man raises a hand gently, holding them at bay.

“…Derek, isn’t it?”

“You have my Betas,” Derek says, eyes flashing briefly, “I am taking them back.”

“Your pack is a dysfunctional group of teenagers, by the look of it,” Deucalion says simply, tilting his head in Jackson’s direction, “I wonder just how many times they’ve been a liability to you?”

“They are pack,” Derek says, “not liabilities. They’re young.”

“Right. And your…sociopathic uncle is the only other member of your pack, isn’t he? A geriatric zombie, I hear.”

Stiles glances at Peter, half-smirking. _It’s a good joke,_ he thinks, _but tasteless._ Peter seems to agree, claws inching over his fingers.

“If you have a proposition, you’re not selling it well.”

“Oh, but I am. Do you know what happens when you kill your pack, Derek?”

The woman is in front of Jackson. The man is in front of Allison. The twins flank Deucalion, one facing Derek and the other facing Stiles and Peter. Strategic placement, for the moment being- Stiles knows, logically, that they’re stronger than all if not most of his side. Jackson’s a new werewolf and Allison is a hunter on level ground. Even Peter is not as strong as he once was.

And he’s human, wolfsbane oil or no.

“When I lost my sight,” Deucalion says, “one of my Betas challenged me. Thought I was unfit to lead. I bested him…and absorbed his power. I became _more_.”

“Are we really doing this?” Stiles interrupts, losing patience. Derek glances at him, eyes widening slightly. Deucalion actually turns, head titled. “the villainous monologue is so cliché and dry. At this point, you’re only embarrassing yourself.”

The woman growls but Stiles ignores her, stepping forward. Peter follows him- Stiles can hear the crack and crunch of his change, a grotesque half-transformation that probably looks like a Halloween mask in the dark.

“I won’t kill my pack,” Derek says, capturing Deucalion’s attention again.

“You don’t have to. Only one,” he says, smiling, “Think about it. The power-,”

“I won’t.”

The man’s grip tightens on his cane. Stiles swallows, glancing at the others in the room. _We only have one choice left. One way to try and convince them,_ he thinks. _One way to hold them back._

“You don’t know,” Stiles says, feigning realization.

Deucalion pauses, shifting, his foot sliding sideways. He looks at Stiles. Over his shoulder, Derek is staring at him, brow furrowed. _What are you talking about?_

“What don’t I know, child Emissary?”

“There’s something else you should probably be worried about,” he says, lips twitching, “Beacon Hills isn’t very supernatural-friendly. In fact, it’s been downright hazardous these last few weeks. You stay long enough, your body count might be higher than your ego.”

Deucalion doesn’t speak. He shifts his weight, though- towards the woman, Stiles notices. _So, she’s the information-gatherer,_ he thinks. The one he should look out for. Set traps for. The big man is clearly muscle. The twins are young, so probably good for infiltration. Monitoring, too, since they could enroll in the high school.

“We aren’t asking,” Stiles continues, “we’re taking. Whether or not the transaction is amicable is entirely up to you. Just remember- our terms of cooperation are harsher for those who get in our way. When the real danger arrives, you might find yourself out of friends.”

He can feel the last chess piece move into place. They’re all set up. The fight is inevitable; it was going to happen the moment Erica and Boyd were taken. All they can do now is follow through with their plan- distract, retrieve, escape. They can’t hope to win. All they can do is fight to confuse. _At least all of us are here,_ he thinks.

“I am I am the Alpha of Alphas. I am the apex of apex predators. I am death, destroyer of worlds. I am the Demon Wolf,” Deucalion roars, his pack springing into motion.

 _Here we go._ He runs.

No matter what anyone might say, he’s on the lacrosse team. He was picked specifically because he’s good at dodging- dodging people, thrown punches, notebooks on bedside tables. So, when he runs through the sudden chaos, he dodges. He slides by the woman, watching Jackson hit her arm. He sprints and ducks behind a pillar, waiting for Deucalion to hit the wall before he passes the man.

He can see the safe in his mind’s eye. It’s just behind this main chamber, probably closed but easy enough to open if he’s careful. He takes the corner like a baseball player, feet sweeping across the floor as he slides to a halt. The wheel on the door doesn’t work. He pulls it, arms straining, wanting to yell his frustration out but unable to.

It finally gives, opening just enough for him to get through.

“ _God_ ,” he gasps, relief pounding through his veins. He can feel adrenaline pumping in his system, the nostalgic sense of terror flooding back. Gerard at his back.

They’re tied to pillars, obviously beaten, sweaty and struggling under heavy chains. He rips their gags off first, knowing he’ll need their voices if something happens behind his back.

“Stiles,” Erica gasps, eyes wet with tears, “oh my god-,”

“They took you?” Boyd asks, ragged.

“No- I bought the cavalry. Gave them a chance they didn’t take and set Peter on them,” Stiles says, as if it’s a matter of fact. _Not that I say it, it sounds way more badass than it actually was._

“You- you came to _negotiate_ for us?” Erica half-laughs, wincing as he unthreads the chains.

“No. I came to tell them I was bringing you home,” he says seriously, “they were in denial, clearly.”

Erica and Boyd share a glance- he’s sure they’re communicating something important- and then they struggle in their bonds, trying to get out as quickly as possible. He’s just pulling the last loop from Erica’s tether when he notices her tense.

“Watch out!” Boyd yells, growling, and Stiles turns to see the large man from before.

His first thought is that _someone’s hurt or in trouble._ At the same time, his arm raises, immediate and instinctual. The gun feels warm in his hand, pulled from beneath his shirt.

He fires once.

The man drops, growling in pain, curled on the ground.

“Gotta love wolf poison,” Stiles spits, feeling vindictive, “Come on. Time to get out.”

Erica helps Boyd and Stiles moves further into the room, checking the corners. He sees a small door and pushes it, peering through.

There’s another person.

“Who-,” he calls back to Erica and Boyd before he pauses, voice dying in his throat.

 _I know those stupid eyebrows,_ he thinks, _and that face-_

“Hale,” he whispers, moving slowly. The girl looks up, eyes hard and calculating. “I’m here to help. Don’t attack. I’m here with Derek and Peter.”

Her eyes widen a fraction. He waits, glancing back at the wall. _We have to go, now._

“We need to go, now,” he says out loud, pulling at the chain securing her, “follow me and _don’t look back_.”

If there’s one thing he knows about the Hales, it’s their stubbornness. This girl looks ready for blood. He’s sure she wants to stay and kill all the Alphas; she has the same look on her face that Peter once had before. He wonders if Derek could ever become homicidal and decides it’s genetically, at least a little bit likely.

“Who-,” Erica starts to ask, glancing at the girl suspiciously.

“A Hale. We’ll hear about it later,” he says, ducking around the corner, “Go out the back. Quickly. _Get in the Jeep._ I’ll signal.”

“What about the others?” Boyd asks, clutching his arm but still firm, “We should help them.”

“They’re fine,” he says, “I guarantee it. Chris and Allison are here, too.”

“You…got them to help?” he asks, mildly impressed and surprised.

“Yeah, we’re all gonna sing kumbaya, now _go._ ”

They slip away and he turns the corner, holding his breath.

It’s a bad fight. Jackson is beaten and Scott is just getting to his feet. Allison and Chris are at a distance, by the door, just trying to work crowd control. Peter is barely on his feet, doing more defense than offense. _Time to go._

He pulls the remote from his pocket. The crossbow is in the tunnel Derek got through- there’s a small back attached to the tip. Just blue powder, but the Alphas don’t know. When he presses the button, the arrow flies to the ground and the bag explodes.

The instinctual reaction- from the Alphas, anyways- is to back away. The others know better. Allison and her father disappear quickly, followed by Scott and Isaac. Jackson and Derek pull Peter up, taking him out the front. The blue haze offers them only a minute but it’s all they need.

Stiles turns on his heel and runs like hell is behind him. It might as well be.

The others are waiting in his car, Erica and Boyd worried. He slams into the driver’s seat, turning the wheel and tearing off towards the Argents’ house. Chris may be a reluctant host but he’s not inhumane. With injured teenagers in tow, he’s willing to give them space to regroup.

“Listen…we’ll get you fixed up,” he says, brushing his hair away from his face. He turns to the girl in the passenger’s seat, hesitating. “Derek…he may not be what you remember. I don’t know. Just…be patient. With him.”

She doesn’t speak, casting him a sidelong glance. He hopes thing turn out all right.

“Thanks for coming for us,” Erica says quietly from the backseat.

“It wasn’t just me.”

“I’m pretty sure it probably was,” Boyd smiles tiredly, “or at least you made sure it worked out all right. The others wouldn’t have waited.”

“I’m sorry we had to,” Stiles says, remembering Gerard and the wires. The pain. “It- again-,”

“We’re here,” Erica reminds him, her hand over the seat and on his shoulder, “and you helped get us here. That’s all that matters now.”

 _Yeah,_ he thinks, _for now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I moved halfway across the country. Sorry for the delay! This was by far one of my favorite chapters to write. I really like the dynamic Stiles has with some of the Betas and I'd love to explore it more. Also, Stiles as an Emissary or Spark is awesome. Hope you enjoy!


	8. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Stiles is preoccupied, something else happens. He shouldn't be surprised, but somehow, he is. He really thought they'd moved past this.

“Cora.”

Derek looks like he’s seeing a ghost. He kind of is.

Even Peter is affected. He hangs back, suspicious, guarded. _He probably doesn’t know how much he can trust her,_ Stiles thinks. He’s not surprised. Cora’s been missing since the fire and they don’t know how long the Alphas had her. For all they know, she wasn’t really a prisoner.

He doubts that, though. She’s scratched up enough, on edge and glaring. He suspects she probably has issues besides being kept locked up by a crazy blind wolf. _But then, which of us doesn’t have issues?_

Derek pulls his sister to him, sighing, sagging into the embrace. Stiles walks by them, leaving them outside while he helps the others into the house. Chris is waiting in the doorway, tired but still alert.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, “for letting them stop here.”

“It’s been a long night. For all of us,” he adds, glancing over Stiles. He visibly notes the torn knee on his jeans, scraped red blood from sliding on concrete. The bruises already flowering on his hands from hitting walls and pillars, scratches from the chains he’d untied, gunpowder residue from… _from shooting someone._

Stiles pauses, passing the gun back to him. The man accepts it, looking half-sorry. He doesn’t ask, to his credit, and Stiles doesn’t offer.

He ducks into the garage, the area set up in a makeshift emergency room. Lydia has water bottles and snacks, cleaning blood from Jackson’s face. Allison is checking Scott’s arm. Isaac lingers by Erica and Boyd, clearly worried but not comfortable tending to them in their condition.

He swears half of them look up to stare at him when he enters. He ignores the attention, making a beeline for the Betas.

“Hey, Catwoman,” he says softly, pulling a washcloth from the counter next to them. There are guns suspended there, lit on a bluish rack. “You need a break?”

“No,” she says, a half-shake of her head, “I need a shower.”

“Yeah. We’ll get you both cleaned up. I’m sure you have somewhere you wanna go, but…I have a pretty comfy air mattress.”

He wipes at her face carefully, just getting the blood off. He doesn’t want it to be the first thing she sees when she gets in front of a mirror. He pauses in front of Boyd, questioning. He doesn’t deny him. Stiles does the same, making sure he gets every last drop he can find.

“You’re a good friend,” Boyd says quietly.

“It’s the only thing I’m good at,” Stiles jokes, but he’s fighting not to get choked up.

Suddenly, all he wants is to be close to someone. Seeing them here, still tired and ragged but alive, is giving him uncomfortable flashbacks. The blue light seems to get brighter in his peripheral. _Stop,_ he chides himself, trying to calm down. _This is not about you._ _This is not your time to be breaking down._

“You should never have put yourself in danger like that,” Derek says, suddenly inside.

Stiles turns, thinking _not now._ He can handle this- he can’t handle whatever Derek has to say. Not now. Not now that he’s in a haze. Seeing the blue light of the hospital and the way he had only been trying to help. _Pushing her hair away from her face, just wanting a hug, suddenly she throws things from her bedside table, screaming…_

“We had a plan,” Stiles reminds him, “besides, I wouldn’t have _died_. I had wolfsbane on me.” He opts for humor, sarcasm the only thing he knows how to use at the moment.

“He’s the one that saved us,” Erica says quietly, turned towards Boyd. Nothing about it is confrontational; she’s only saying what she thinks.

“We had everyone in once place,” Derek says, “Everyone could have been captured at once- or hurt. I didn’t say anything because you had the majority-,”

“You’re seriously pulling diplomacy on us?” Isaac asks, incredulous, “You remember being a dictator Alpha, right?”

“That’s not fair,” Stiles manages, _he was more of an idiot then, it’s not pertinent right now,_ “and it doesn’t matter anyways, we’re all here. Plus one, I might add.”

“I’m grateful we found Cora,” Derek says, “but now more than ever, I can’t risk any of you. Not inexperienced werewolves and especially not humans. You heard Deucalion- he wants me to kill my pack.”

“But you won’t,” Stiles says firmly, “Look, we’ve all been through the wringer. Why don’t we leave like polite guests and regroup tomorrow? Arguing right now isn’t going to help anyone.”

“He’s right,” Scott says, pulling his hoodie back on, “Erica and Boyd need rest, and you and Peter should be with Cora.”

Derek doesn’t argue. _Thank God._ Stiles pulls himself away from the others, knowing that his hands are going to start shaking soon. All of his adrenaline is gone, leaking from him like air from a tire. He can probably barely stay on his feet long enough to get home.

“Where do you want to stay?” Scott asks Erica and Boyd, quiet. Stiles can barely hear him. “I have room and so does Allison. You could go with Derek-,”

“Stiles,” Erica says, probably a little louder than she intended. He turns, surprised. “Can…”

“Yes,” he says immediately, “Of course you can.”

-

Erica and Boyd can’t sleep properly, either because of their schedule while confined or maybe simply because they were confined.

He sets the mattress up in his bedroom, rearranging things so that it fits properly. He even takes the precaution of texting his father, citing a long day of training with Allison for his locked door and the low music drowning the still-awake world outside out. _I’ll sleep in,_ he writes, _don’t wait up. Dinner’s in the fridge and lunch is packed for tomorrow._

Erica and Boyd shower first. He waits for them, bringing extra water and food into his bedroom just in case. He has blankets piled up that haven’t been used in years- not since there were family nights curled up on the couches, watching _Star Wars_ and _Harry Potter._

Erica comes out first. She looks almost like herself, just a little more drawn and tired. Allison had loaned her some pajamas, since they’re the same height- the shirt hangs a little too much from her shoulders, though, the sight making him angry. He suddenly hates the Alpha pack more than he’s really admitted to disliking anything before. He’s not one to hate but he can’t help it, watching Erica and Boyd curl close to each other in the barely-there evening light.

It takes only an hour- he falls asleep, drifting, and then suddenly he’s opening his eyes to Erica’s hand on his arm, tight. He almost has a heart attack, ready to beat whoever is trying to pull him away from the Betas.

Instead, he looks down to see the other two still awake, Erica looking guilty for waking him up. He pauses, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. They watch as he plops down between them, half-awake but somehow sure it’s what he needs to do. It only takes a minute for him to be sucked into their supernatural body heat, drifting off again as Erica whispers something in his ear.

“Thank you for finding us.”

-

“I think I know what we’re dealing with.”

“I should hope so,” Deaton says, raising his eyebrows. _Sarcastic jerk,_ Stiles thinks, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Where are the other two?”

“With Isaac and Scott. They’re not my children, you know.”

“You found them. They’re closer to you, now.”

“I didn’t actually singlehandedly do anything,” Stiles reminds him, “except maybe shoot a werewolf. Which…,”

“Yes, but you were the first person they saw after being captured.”

“What, so they imprinted like baby ducks? Okay- look, this is off topic, we’re not talking about this.”

Deaton waits for him, an eyebrow raised. Not as well as the Hale signature move, but close in levels of sass. Stiles inhales, focusing.

“There were three girls. The latest victim- it was a guy. With a girlfriend. She said he wasn’t a virgin, so-,”

“Did you ask her?” Deaton asks, half shocked and half resigned.

_Yeah, and she slapped me,_ he doesn’t say. He also doesn’t say that he stopped himself from talking to Lydia about it.

Or that his father had told him the FBI was getting involved.

“Listen- there’s a pattern. Threes. I think it might be a Druid.”

Deaton pauses in mid-move, hands hovering over a package of syringes. Stiles waits. _He knows,_ he realizes, _and he’s not telling me. Us._

“…it’s not a Druid,” Deaton says carefully.

“How do you know? It-,”

“When you tell yourself something long enough, you start to believe it,” the man says, absorbed in thought. Stiles holds his tongue. “Druids aren’t like this. Their name means ‘wise oak’. Whoever is doing this isn’t wise; they’re just playing at it.”

“So we can identify them by the pattern, but they won’t be successful with whatever they’re doing?”

“I wouldn’t count on them failing,” Deaton says, sending him a significant look, “A Darach is not something to play with. It could kill you all.”

“Can’t everything,” Stiles mutters, wiping a hand over his face, “I need to tell the others.”

-

There aren’t any cars in the lot. He feels his heart pick up as he climbs the stairs, taking two at a time as he rushes to get up. _Come on,_ he thinks, _come on._

He pounds on the door and waits. There’s no answer.

“Derek! Open up!”

He waits, cursing, and punches the door as he turns to race down the stairs. _Fuck._ He tries Scott’s phone, anxious. No answer.

“Damn it!” he yells, dialing Derek’s number. He’s in the middle of the call, hearing the phone ring endlessly, when another call comes through.

“ _They went to attack the Alphas,_ ” Deaton says, “ _and I don’t think it went well._ ”

“What-,” Stiles starts, yelling, and then the man interrupts.

“ _I have to go, Stiles. Be careful._ ”

He doesn’t ask what the hell is going on; he’s sure he doesn’t want to know. _What a fucking mess,_ he thinks, exasperated. He’s glad the track meet isn’t until next week; at this rate, he’s going to become the official hand-holder for impulsive werewolves. He’s sure he doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he were gone.

He calls Erica next, knowing she and Boyd will be together.

“ _What’s wrong?_ ” he feels bad for calling and worse that she knows there’s a problem.

“Well, the idiots went after the Alphas,” he says, tense, hearing her inhale sharply, “Stay inside and stay safe. They shouldn’t come after you.”

“ _Boyd,_ ” she says, breathless, and he it kills him to hear. He should have known Boyd would go. He’s starting to regret calling her, but she is quick to get back on topic. “ _Stiles, you need to get home. Get somewhere safe._ ”

“I will. First, I need to know who’s in trouble. Just stay with Lydia, okay?”

“ _…okay. Be careful,_ ” she says, stressing each word. After she hangs up, he’s already dialing another number, driving down the street to Allison’s.

Peter doesn’t answer. _Okay. Peter, Scott, Derek…who else?_ He knows Isaac will be with Scott and Cora will be with the Hales. He pulls to a halt in Allison’s driveway, knocking on the door urgently.

Chris opens the door, brow furrowed, and then realization settles over his face. It gives Stiles an answer he hadn’t thought he would need.

“She went with them,” he realizes, angry and horrified. _She went and didn’t tell me._

He’s not sure what hurts more- that they’re all running around behind his back again, or that even the progress they’ve made in the past few months was not enough to make them think twice. He wants to scream. Instead, he takes a deep breath.

“Can I come in?”

Chris steps aside, something clearly brewing beneath the surface. Stiles sits on the stairs, staring at the door, one leg bouncing erratically. He feels useless.

_He came home, backpack heavy, a laugh on his lips where it would die for months after. The door was open and no one was home. There was glass on the floor, blood on the sink. His father’s uniform half-folded, the shirt missing as if he hadn’t had time to take it off._

There are ghosts everywhere in his mind. He tries to hide from them in the present, thinking only that he hopes no one is dead.

-

She knew her father would be waiting. She hadn’t quite expected Stiles.

Scott glances at her, still partly wounded, concerned. He looks ready to go inside but she stops him, knowing it won’t help. Not if she knows anything about Stiles, or her father.

“It’s fine. Go home,” she says, climbing out of the car. Peter is silent in the driver’s seat. She may not trust him but she knows he’ll get Scott back.

She walks up to the steps. Her father is just there, sitting with his hands locked over his knees.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You would have said no,” she tries gently, “and I couldn’t let them go alone.”

“If you had told me, I would have talked them out of it,” he says, sighing into his hands, “This- this isn’t safe. You know that.”

She kneels carefully, reaching for her father’s hands. They’re worn. Now that she thinks back, he was always a little too scratched up to be a security agent or ‘uniquely qualified supplier’.

“It was a bad idea, Dad. But I couldn’t let them go alone.”

He doesn’t say anything else. She knows there’s more to say and he probably will say it, but now isn’t the time. Now, Stiles is waiting inside. He probably knows she’s there.

He’s the one she’s worried about. She thinks maybe it’s karma that he’s at her house, of all places. She almost wishes she’d let Scott come in. She knows it would hurt their friendship, though. They can’t afford that, now.

“Hey, Batman,” she says softly, trying to draw him out. He is sitting on the stairs, knees pulled up to his chest.

“…what the hell were you all thinking?”

“They wanted to end it. Boyd and Cora especially. I think they just wanted to feel safe again.”

“They’re not strong enough,” he says, trying to hold something back, “ _none_ of us are strong enough-,”

“I know,” she says, stopping him. She kneels in front of him, knowing there is no good way to do what she has to. “Stiles…Derek…he didn’t come back with us.”

She can see the precise moment that he breaks. It hurts her more than she expected.

She had known. It had been clear, in little ways- the way Stiles talked to him, turned towards him, the change in their dynamic. The way Derek had been at Stiles’ side first after the raid, even if he’d been saying all the wrong things.

It kills her, knowing this thing has died before it could even start. Before Stiles had a chance to grow up, stand next to Derek, be with him the way he wanted. She watches his hand cover his mouth, knuckles white as it curls into a fist. The fury and betrayal and crushing sadness takes over his face and she pulls him close, wishing for all the world that she _had_ told her father.

Told Stiles, even.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she says, biting her lip and trying not to cry. She had watched the man fall, Ennis- the man- pulling him down. Like something out of a nightmare.

“I have to go,” he says, his voice somehow stable. She hates that it sounds like he’s had practice composing himself. _It’s not good when you know how to pretend you’re okay,_ she thinks, knowing she’s done the same thing before.

“Stiles-,”

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he says quietly, slipping out the door.

She stands in the foyer, wanting to scream and break something, and instead she slips to the floor. She leans against the banister, frustrated and tired, and cries.

-

When he hangs up, Stiles probably driving somewhere in town, he stares at the wolves in his clinic. He breathes evenly, thinking only that he misses the old days more than ever.

“I’m a veterinarian,” he says, warning. It feels like the hundredth time he’s said it.

“Help him,” the woman spits, supporting the large man with one shoulder.

There are twins with her. Young. It is frustrating and saddening to see them there, teenagers caught up in a bloodthirsty game of chess. He glances at them but neither back down.

“Take him to the table,” Deaton submits, giving in. He knows he can’t do much to deter them; fighting will only get him hurt. All he can do is comply.

He is in the middle of setting up when the door slams again. The other wolves turn, alarmed, when another man walks in.

This man…this man, he recognizes. He pauses, still. He knows he poses no threat to any of them- he is simply a bystander, involved yet untouched.

Lucky, really.

“Move aside,” Deucalion says, waiting. The woman opens her mouth but he stops her. “Kali.”

“Wait- he can still-,” one of the twins says, moving, and the man moves too fast to be seen. There is a spray of blood and Deaton holds his place, waiting for the storm to pass.

Deucalion steps up to the man on the table, tilting his head to look. Deaton does not watch, only hearing the sound of death and the wave of power that is released. He knows what this is. A damned ritual, the result of which is chilling and dangerous.

_I told them to stay away,_ he thinks. He wonders who has died and who is still injured.

“Thank you…veterinarian,” Deucalion says, half-smiling, “Do be safe.”

He waits for them to leave, staring at the drops of blood on the table, the man heavy on its surface.

_I should have them come clean up,_ he thinks, turning to pick up his phone from the counter, _after all, this is their mess._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an interlude, really, because Jennifer (ugh) is about to show up and the Alphas are going to be more of a problem. Thank you to everyone still following; I really do get motivation from your comments, even if I'm not able to answer them immediately or all of the time. I hope you enjoy this installment...and there will be more to come.


	9. The Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're on a bus. One of them is hurt, two are angry, and one is tired beyond their few years. There's a storm brewing- literally. It's the kind of nightmare trip that can't end well.  
> Or maybe it can.

“Harris is dead,” Scott says in a half-whisper.

Not like he has to. Everyone’s already murmuring about it, secrets and speculations flying. How the man had been found, how the killings were still continuing…

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Things are bad; they know that. Making a comment won’t change that. He sits in his seat, staring at the book in his lap, and wonders what they can do anymore. There’s an Alpha pack in town, two of the Betas are traumatized, everyone is injured to some extent, and there’s a Darach killing people in sets of threes.

Oh, and they’re all required to go on a track and field trip. They’re sitting on a bus, bumping up and down on the road. Ethan- which is apparently the name of one of the Alpha twins- is with them. At some point, he learns, the intruder had made his way into Coach’s good graces and onto the team.

He wants to laugh. He wants to walk out and leave and never look back. He wants to say, _I’m done_. He understands now how Chris must have felt.

“There’s no point losing sleep over it,” Isaac tells Boyd, “it wasn’t our fault. We need to focus on staying alive, now.”

It makes logical sense, especially coming from Isaac. _Of course his survival instinct would drive him._ It doesn’t hurt any less, though. He thinks Boyd might be looking at him but he keeps his eyes on his lap, trying to work things out in his mind.

According to Deaton, the Alpha pack is one wolf down. That means that Kali, the woman, and Aiden, the other twin, are still threats. And Deucalion is the biggest threat of them all. So now they’re down one- with Derek gone- and the only truly experienced wolves one their side are Peter and Cora. One of which is a teenager.

He still feels the sting of Derek’s apparent death. Logically, he knows better than to take things at face value for a day. He knows that Peter managed to come back and Cora was presumed dead for years.

…he just hopes Derek doesn’t disappear for years, too.

“They’re still following us,” Scott says, glancing back over the seats.

“Of course they are. It’s Lydia and Allison.”

-

“Are they moving around the bus?”

“Of course they are. It’s Scott and Stiles.”

Allison glances at Lydia, adjusting her grip on the steering wheel. Her friend peers over her arm, not even trying to be conspicuous. Her open book rests in her lap.

“You’re almost out of gas.”

“…I don’t want to lose them,” she sighs, shifting in her seat. _In more ways than one._ She remembers Scott’s face when Derek had fallen. Remembers the way the others had called his name. How they had struggled away from the fight, again.

“We know where they’re going.” It’s matter-of-fact. Allison tries not to sigh again. She knows Lydia is right. They aren’t going to lose anyone on a dusty stretch of road.

Still.

“After that fight…Scott should have healed. And he’s still feeling guilty about Derek; I know it.”

“We can’t help that. Derek was an adult, Allison; he made his own choices. A really stupid one, in this case.”

“You know, I’ve noticed you and Aiden. That seems to be an interesting thing.”

“A thing? I wouldn’t say so.”

She says it flippantly, as if it’s inconsequential, but Allison can tell what she’s not saying. _She’s not saying she’s already involved, somehow._ She’s pretty sure they were alone in a dark classroom the other day. She wonders what Jackson knows, or if he does. If Lydia is really pursuing someone else, or if this is just another plan.

Not that she’s judging. At least Lydia _knows_ what Aiden is. Still…

“Can you try to call Deaton again?”

-

“Dude, you don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Scott repeats, looking out the window.

Stiles yanks up the corner of his shirt, almost shrinking at the wound. Scott sends him a warning glare, glancing at Coach as the man walks down the aisle. Stiles drops the shirt, sighing through his nose. _Nothing will ever be easy._

“Scott, that’s not healing. Why aren’t you healing?”

“I don’t know.”

“…we need to get you fixed up.” He stands, cautiously making his way towards the front of the bus.

“Stilinski! In your seat! Now!”

“Hey, Coach- think we can pull over? I don’t know about you, but I’m super hungry-,”

“We are _not_ stopping-,”

“You know, statistically, we’re less likely to perform well if we’re hungry. Athletes need calories to burn, Coach, we-,”

He blows his whistle. Stiles tries to get a word in but all he can say are syllables- bits and pieces- his mind gnawing on the thought that _Scott is withering in his seat and I can’t even help the friend I have that’s still alive._

“ _OKAY!_ ” he yells, barely able to hold back his anger. He can see a spark of something in the man’s eyes- recognition, maybe, of a bigger problem- but Stiles doesn’t let him wonder about it. Instead he turns on his heels, already pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Danny raises an eyebrow at him and Ethan- the smug werewolf bastard- is smirking. Stiles wants nothing more than to punch his face in.

“Hey.”

“ _Stiles. How bad?_ ” Allison asks, her voice low.

“We need to stop.”

“ _Okay. Do it,_ ” she says, “ _I’m right behind you._ ”

Even the vague words comfort him. Somehow, with Allison on his side, he thinks he can do this. That’s how it started, after all. Him learning how to fight and her learning that she could still be part of Scott’s life. That she could still be friends and none of them would have to fight a sense of awkwardness. _That she was not alone._

 _Remember not to scratch too hard. It won’t hurt- or, it won’t hurt as much as you’ve been hurt by other things,_ he remembers her saying. He can see Allison’s smile, the way she had tilted her head, hair falling over her shoulder. _It’s an easy way to get out of class if you have a problem. Or to make yourself seem weak._

“Stiles? What-,”

He ignores Scott and scratches. Scott reaches out, alarmed, but it’s already bleeding. It takes him a moment to concentrate on the smell, letting it get to him. He can make himself slip, but only so far.

“Coach!” Scott calls, worried. Stiles feels bad until he remembers that Scott needs off more than he does.

“What?” the man yells, turning. He blanches when he sees Stiles, making a face. “Oh, _Jesus_ -,”

“I think we need to stop.”

“No _shit_ ,” the man says, making his way towards the front of the bus.

Boyd maneuvers up two rows, peering over Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles has his head tilted forward a little, one hand cupped under the slow drip.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Boyd says quietly, “I-,”

“It’s just a nosebleed,” Stiles murmurs, “We need to get off the road. Scott’s in bad shape.”

The bus rolls to a stop outside a gas station. Stiles gets to his feet, pretending to be wobbly, pulling Scott’s arm around his shoulders.

“Lean on me,” he whispers.

They make their way off the bus. Lydia and Allison are already waiting, trying to look inconspicuous. He helps Scott into a restroom, hearing the lock swing when Lydia shuts the door behind them.

“What’s going on?” Lydia asks, watching Stiles peel Scott’s shirt off. “Oh- god, that’s disgusting.”

“It’s not healing,” Scott says, breathing heavily as he leans against a wall.

“There’s no reason it shouldn’t be healing,” Allison says, worriedly looking at it, “They didn’t use poison or anything else that could have caused this.”

“Maybe it’s not infected,” Lydia starts, “maybe it’s somatoform.”

“It- what?” Scott asks, confused.

“…she means it’s in your head,” Stiles realizes, feeling the stab of hurt return with a vengeance. He knows why she thinks it’s in his head. Hell, he already half-believes it. “Derek.”

He can tell from the fear and worry in Scott’s eyes that he hit the mark. Not that it takes much- he knows Scott feels a ridiculously huge responsibility to save everybody. _I guess we’re all learning that sometimes that’s not possible._ He swallows, trying to figure out how to make this right.

“…Allison, you know how to stitch up a wound?” Lydia asks, suddenly digging through her purse.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Maybe if he thinks he’s healing, he’ll start. Here,” she says, passing a sewing kit to the other girl, “I’ll go back and make sure the bus doesn’t leave.”

Stiles hesitates, looking at Allison. He could stay to support his friends- his best friends, really. He wants to, partially, but he knows Scott needs space. _And Allison was always able to reach him,_ he thinks, worrying his bottom lip until he knows it’ll bleed.

“I’ll get you another shirt,” Stiles offers, knowing it’s useless. It makes him feel like he’s doing something, though. “Call me if you need me.”

He leaves the restroom, wondering if Jackson will be with Lydia. If Isaac and Boyd are keeping an eye on Ethan.

He wonders if Derek was in pain.

-

They may not really be together but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about him. It’s the opposite- she knows him so well and cares enough to know that this is killing him. It’s probably all he can think about.

He doesn’t even know about Stiles and Derek. She thinks if he did, he wouldn’t be conscious.

“You’ll be okay,” Scott says, sighing as he leans against the wall.

She flicks a lighter, watching the needle in its depths. Nothing about the bathroom is sanitary but she doesn’t need it to be- she just needs the stitches to help him heal. Her hand holds the thread and she moves it carefully, trying to concentrate.

It misses and she tries again, frustrated.

 _You can’t even do this,_ she hears her mother say, _this one little thing. Just a needle and thread. You can’t do this for him and he’s going to die here on the floor._

“No,” she says, voice breaking, desperate. Her fingers are shaking. “No, no-,”

“Allison,” Scott says. She stops and looks at him, trying to get her breathing under control. “You can do this.”

 _I can do this,_ she thinks, ignoring the words in her mind, _I just have to step back._ She breathes in deeply, reminding herself that thinking about the person means that the wound won’t be given enough attention. _Focus on it, not on him._

She starts to sew the wound, hoping everything will be fine. It’s not until she finishes that she looks up to see Scott’s eyes closed, his head tilted towards his shoulder. Her heart beats once, painfully, and she leans closer.

“Scott. Scott,” she tries, gentle but firm. _It won’t end like this. It can’t._ “Scott. Come on- Scott.”

He breathes suddenly, inhaling, eyes glowing briefly as they open. She watches him, worried and relieved, hoping the wound will close.

“It’s my fault,” he breathes, eyes wet, and she tries not to cry.

-

Stiles sees the bathroom door open and sighs, relieved. Lydia glances at him, moving closer down the aisle.

“I don’t even know what’s going on anymore,” she says, looking out the windows, “I mean, we know there’s more than just the Alphas. You noticed it.”

“It’s a Darach,” he says, rubbing his forehead, “that’s what I was going to tell everyone before- before Derek decided to take off.” He swallows past the lump in his throat, wondering when things got so convoluted.

“…where are Isaac and Boyd?” Lydia asks suddenly.

He turns, immediately noticing that Ethan is gone. _Oh, god,_ he thinks, _not them, too._ He can only handle one bad decision at a time. It seems like maybe Derek’s bad choices haven’t taught the Betas anything. He sprints from his seat, glad the Coach is inside the convenience store.

Scott and Allison watch him dash by, confusion and a question on their faces, but he ignores them and rounds the corner of the building. He skids to a halt, shocked. Isaac is attacking Ethan, Boyd standing nearby and watching.

“Isaac! Isaac, stop-,” Stiles starts, trying to get closer, but Boyd holds him back.

He shakes his head, serious, but Stiles struggles. He shouts, panicked, thinking only that this isn’t right. He may want the twins out of the way for good but he knows they can’t just kill Ethan. Not here, especially, in the middle of a track field trip. Isaac would be in more trouble than any of them could handle.

“Stop!” Stiles yells, straining against Boyd, “Isaac, _stop!_ ”

“Isaac!”

Stiles feels it. He can hear it, somehow, a sixth sense burning as he hears Scott speak. It’s the voice of an Alpha. He turns, stunned, and notices Isaac moving away from Ethan in his peripheral. Scott is standing, looking already better, Allison by his side. They both watch Isaac, waiting.

 _Just another thing to add to the list,_ Stiles thinks, feeling Boyd’s grip loosen, _and another thing to worry about._

“Great,” he hears a voice coming towards them. Coach. “Just an hour in-,”

Ethan is pulled to his feet, turning away as his face heals. Stiles is glad that he at least doesn’t make a scene. They wait, milling, while Finstock rounds the corner.

“Well? What are you delinquents waiting for?”

“Sorry, Coach- we just…needed to stretch,” Stiles says, slipping into humor like an old jacket, “You know…gotta stay limber.”

“Well, that won’t do us any good. It's postponed. Go on.”

Stiles exchanges a look with Allison. He can’t quite believe it. Not luck, after everything they’ve been through. He wants to laugh and cry at the same time. The storm overhead crackles and he wonders when it got there- if it’s been following them.

“Get on the bus!” the man yells, staring, and they trudge back.

 _One good thing,_ Stiles thinks, feeling as if he’d run a marathon anyways. _Just one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more stuff. I'm excited for them to get back to Beacon Hills. Mostly, I really wanted to give them a partial break, which I think the show did, too. I do think Motel California did a lot for the kids in terms of friendship and reminding them what was important. I'd like to visit the same kind of dynamic, except with the new things here (Allison and Stiles, etc.) Anyhow, I hope you enjoy and get ready for some more pack feels.


	10. Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get supernatural at the motel. It all happens so quickly they can barely keep up. At the end of it, though, there will be things to consider.

It’s a creepy hotel. He immediately hates it but decides he doesn’t really have a choice, given the fact that they’re in the middle of the desert. There’s nothing around for miles and Finstock is already barking about rules for the ‘degenerates’ and ‘sexual deviants’ on board the bus.

Thankfully, Scott doesn’t need his support. They leave the bus, Allison and Lydia close behind. He hears them talking as he starts to walk towards the motel.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like it,” Lydia says immediately. It is not the tone of a pampered queen- it is the voice of someone just as uneasy as he is.

“We’re only here for one night,” Allison says reassuringly. The sound of their footsteps starts to catch up to him.

“A lot can happen in one night.”

He immediately thinks of Peter and has to shake his head, trudging towards a room. Scott enters first, sighing as he throws himself sideways across a bed.

“So. Who do you think it is?”

“…what?” muffled, the questionable duvet on the bed absorbing most of his voice.

“Who do you think is making human sacrifices?”

“-wait, what are you talking about?” Scott sits up, eyes narrowed, “Stiles-,”

_Fuck,_ he realizes. After the fight with- everyone, he’d almost forgotten he hadn’t been able to talk to them about his theory. Not that it’s a theory anymore.

“Okay- the first three that died were virgins. Now Harris is dead. Whoever’s doing this is trying  to emulate a Druid but Deaton called them a Darach- an evil version-,”

“Wait, since when were these ritual sacrifices?”

“Since there was an _established pattern,_ ” Stiles says, incredulous, “that’s what I was going to tell you before…,” he trails off and swallows.

Scott’s always been good at picking up his emotions. He just hopes his best friend isn’t able to pick up just how much Derek’s absence is killing him.

“Okay, so let’s say it’s a pattern. A killer. You’ve got an idea?”

“Several. I mean- Cora’s been missing for ages and she’s a Hale. You remember what _Peter_ was like after the fire. Plus, there’s Deaton. He’s always being cryptic and I think he knows more about everything than he tells us. And what about Lydia? I mean, Peter used her before-,”

“I don’t think it’s Cora,” Scott says, brow wrinkled, “she just…didn’t strike me the same as Peter. And I think Lydia is more aware than she’s ever been.”

“Well, what about Deaton-,”

“I don’t think we can make any guesses yet. Remember Matt? He wasn’t involved in anything and he ended up being the Kanima Master. We didn’t even consider him until it was too late.”

“Um, to be fair, I _did_ say-,”

Scott throws a pillow halfheartedly and Stiles grins, feeling the tension ease a fraction. He misses being able to talk without feeling perpetually worried. At least now they’ll have a moment- a night to recuperate before getting back home. He thinks the meet is cancelled and is hoping with all his heart that they just head back into town. They aren’t far and all he wants to be doing is investigating.

“Why don’t you go get some food?” Scott mumbles into the bed.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says, stretching as he gets up. _Might as well._

-

“Hey, Dad. We just stopped at a motel.”

“ _Oh. Where is it?_ ”

She can’t tell from his voice whether or not he’s angry. Not that she would blame him- it was a stupid idea to go with Derek and the others. It had been a doomed plan from the beginning. Her only solace is that no one else was lost that day.

_One is really enough._

“Um- I’m not sure. It’s the Motel Glen Capri.”

“… _the name sounds familiar,_ ” he says. She wants to point out that they’ve moved around so much he probably stayed once but decides against it. They’re already in a tenuous place. “ _Are you sure you don’t want me to come pick you up?_ ”

“No, Dad- it’s not that far. We’ll probably head back tomorrow anyways.”

“ _Okay. Be safe._ ”

“I will, Dad. I love you.”

“ _I love you, too._ ”

She hangs up and stares at her phone, pondering. There’s not much she can tell in a conversation where she can’t see her father’s face. She gives up worrying, rolling over on her side to look at Lydia. Instead of a tired or sleeping face, she sees her friend staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.

“…Lydia?”

“Shhh,” she says, breathless and staring. Allison uneasily moves her legs towards the side of the bed, tense. _Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water…_

After three minutes, she gives up.

“What is it?”

“…do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The conversation. They’re talking in the next room.”

“About what?” Allison asks, leaning forward. She feels her skin crawl a little, nervousness starting to inch in.

No one’s really sure what Lydia is. Or what she can do. All they know is that after Peter’s attack, she’s been…different. Like there are things she can sense. Allison wishes there were a way for her to learn the same way the Betas have but she knows it’s not likely. _Not without knowing who to ask for help in the first place._

“…suicide,” she says, blinking, “They’re talking about-,”

She cuts herself off, jumping minutely where she sits on the bed. Allison moves sympathetically, the shock rubbing off on her. Lydia jumps off the bed suddenly, moving towards the door. Allison follows her, half exasperated and half worried about what they’ll find.

“Lydia-,”

The door swings open under Lydia’s hand, unlocked. Allison scoots closer, one hand already slipping her dagger out of its sheath.

They turn the corner and find emptiness. The room is black, almost stripped to its bare bones. There is no bed- only the dirty ground and the remnants of carpeting torn from its insides. She looks to Lydia, questioning.

“…I think we should leave,” she says, tense.

“There’s nothing here,” Allison tries to reason, “I mean…it can’t be haunted, right?”

“I don’t know. Do you think they took the carpet out because it was stained with brain matter?”

-

Boyd leaves the lobby after punching a hole in the vending machine.

It’s not the most violent thing he’s seen a werewolf do so he takes it in stride, picking out some candy and snacks for Scott. He stares at the front desk, looking at the sign behind it. A number.

“198,” he mutters, staring at it. _What is it? How many miles from civilization we are?_ He turns away, getting ready to leave.

A shiver runs down his spine. It feels like someone is watching him.

He turns, uneasy, scanning the area. No one. No one, but…

But now it says 201.

He leaves in a rush, dropping his armful as he goes. His heart races in his chest. _Not here,_ he thinks, _please, not here._ All he can see is Heather being dragged away, the wet blood left on the windowsill slick and warm on his fingers. He sprints back to his room, praying that nothing has happened.

When he bursts in he can practically smell the heaviness in the air. Scott, staring at the window, breaks his watch to look at Stiles. There is something terrible in his eyes- a crushing realization, as if he’s seen something he can never forget. He turns back to the window for a moment, hesitating to step closer. Stiles gets closer, swallowing his fear.

“What? What is it?”

“…nothing.”

He wonders for a moment if it’s Derek. _That’s not right, though._ He almost has a heart attack when his phone buzzes then, insistent in his pocket. He grabs it, hoping it’s a text telling them to get back on the bus so that they can leave. Instead, he sees Lydia’s name.

“Come on,” he says, pulling Scott by the arm, “We’re not doing this shit again.”

-

“Why did you bring him?”

“Because the last time we kept people out of the loop, someone ended up dead.”

Allison holds her breath. It’s a harsh statement. She wants to pull Stiles back, remind him that they’re still fighting the same enemies. Only this time, with less support.

“…fine,” Lydia says, “but if he tries something, I’m not holding back.”

“Good. What is it?”

“When I went up to the front desk earlier, the woman told me this hotel is famous for its suicides.”

“One hundred and ninety-eight,” Stiles murmurs, realization dawning on his face.

“…yes,” Lydia says, glancing at Allison. _I didn’t tell him._ “We need to leave. And if we don’t leave-,” she turns, grabbing the travel Bible from the desk, “then we need to exorcise this place. I don’t want to get murdered by one of our friends, do you?”

Stiles squints, looking like he’s seen a ghost. Allison glances at Lydia, questioning.

“Stiles?” she asks, “What is it?”

“…there’s something in the book,” he says, grabbing it and slamming it open on the bed.

Newspaper clippings. Allison thumbs through the old paper gently, chilled at the words she sees. Suicides. Names, ages, places, sensational titles. She picks one up, heart pounding painfully. _Argent._ The name stares up at her like a warning.

“Okay. Why don’t we go back to the room you heard something in?” she proposes, turning to grab her knife from the TV stand.

“Good idea.”

-

He can barely see. Everything is red.

His chest throbs. _I don’t have much time._ It’s a Herculean task, pulling himself through the back door. He’s glad the Sheriff isn’t home; it would make things even harder. It’s all he can do to make it up the stairs, staggering, hoping he hasn’t dropped blood on the carpet.

By the time he makes it into Stiles’ room, his hand is wet with blood again. He closes the door behind him, thinking at least it’ll earn him time, and staggers towards the bed. His hand instinctively braces against something- a wall or a bookcase- and he hopes the darkness can hide the blood.

He tumbles onto the bed painfully, head swimming as he tries to breathe evenly. _Stiles._ He had wanted to see him, one last time. With the bare breath he’d been left with.

It seems like this is just another cruel joke. He thinks, _at least I can go surrounded by the smell of him,_ and tries to imagine Stiles lying by his side.

He breathes out slowly and relaxes into the bed.

-

“It wasn’t locked before,” Lydia says, fear crossing her face.

Stiles kicks at the doorknob, instinct taking over. He knows where to hit it to open the door. It takes a few tries but then it’s breaking inwards, the sound of a saw loud over their combined gasps.

Ethan is holding the power tool up to his chest.

“What the _fu_ -,” Stiles yells, sprinting forward unthinkingly.

He’d like to say later that he made the conscious decision to save the Alpha despite their rocky history. The reality is that he had moved, terrified, not wanting to see any more blood or death. All he can think about is the fight he wasn’t in and the person left behind.

He tries to grab the power saw. A stupid idea, but one that gives them time. Just as he wrestles it away, he hears the sudden grind of the blade losing power and then he’s stumbling, falling with the spinning metal a mere inch from his face.

_This has got to stop happening._

“Stiles!”

He turns to Allison, watching her struggle with one of Ethan’s arms. He’s still trying to rip his chest open. Stiles pushes himself forward, nearly tripping in his haste. He grabs Ethan’s other arm, frustrated, knowing full well that the Alpha is likely to throw them off before they can snap him out of it. Lydia is watching from the doorway, horrified.

“Drop him!” Stiles yells, briefly locking eyes with Allison. _Just like we practiced._

They move in tandem, using their weight to throw Ethan off balance, each kicking legs out to contact the back of his knees. He collapses suddenly, shoulder hitting a space heater in the corner. He roars in pain, the heat making his body jerk. Stiles hits a wall, groaning at the bruise he can already feel forming. They all lay on the floor, breathing heavily, and then Ethan blinks.

The Alpha rises, stumbling, and makes his way towards the door. Lydia steps aside, alarmed, staring after him. _Oh, you’ve got to be-_

“Ethan!” Stiles yells, somehow getting to his feet even as his body protests. His hand smacks the doorway as he leaves, another bruise flowering just beneath the skin.

“Leave me alone.”

“W- we just _saved your life,_ ” Stiles starts, anger flaring, and then Ethan spins on his heels. Stiles leans away, instinct warning him.

“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t have.”

He walks away and Stiles curses internally, wondering if the universe is punishing him for thinking they’d get a break. Allison speaks then, sudden and anxious.

“Where’s Scott?”

“Go look,” he says quickly, glancing at Lydia, “we’ll find Boyd and Isaac.”

He starts running down the row of doors, mind racing. _What the hell is going on here?_ He skids to a stop in front of Boyd’s room, hoping both of the Betas are inside. The door is thankfully unlocked and he dashes in, hearing nothing. No Isaac. Just-

“Shit,” he curses, trying to find a way to lever the safe up. _How the hell did he carry a safe all the way to his room?_

“Try to open the drain,” Lydia suggests, watching from the bathroom door. Stiles feels his hands slip on the wet floor, jeans soaking at the knees.

“I can’t,” he says, panicking, “it’s blocked.”

“…fire. We need something to burn him,” Lydia says quickly, “Road flares. On the bus-,”

“Go!” he yells, trying to do something to help Boyd.

Her feet recede into the distance and he scrambles to his feet, hoping there’s something in the room he can use to lever the safe. When he turns from the closet, his foot slips and he hits the ground, wincing in pain.

He almost screams when he sees eyes in the darkness under the bed.

“Isaac?”

No answer. He knows it’s him and he reaches under, wanting to pull, before stopping himself. _Fire._ He throws drawers open, hoping, and then he reaches into his pocket. _There are some things you keep handy when you’re traveling, son,_ he hears his father say, _no matter how safe you think you are._

He flicks the lighter, shoving an arm beneath the bed, and just as Isaac screams the front door opens again.

Lydia races towards the tub, shoving the flare underwater. Stiles yanks her back, knowing what’s about to happen, and they just miss Boyd as he emerges from the tub. He roars, eyes glimmering as his nails scrape the walls, and then Stiles turns to the door.

“One left,” he says, taking the flare from her.

-

“Scott. Scott, come here.”

She’s never felt this kind of fear before. Not like this.

Her mother is dead. Her aunt, too. In both cases, it had not been the same. She had not been there, watching, knowing it could be prevented. She had maybe not loved them the way she had- and still loves Scott.

He stares at her sadly and she feels it hit her heart. One thing she’d loved about him was his smile- the crooked jaw, the way his eyes seemed to glow. The way he always smiled at everyone even if they weren’t friends. He seemed to carry joy with him.

There is no joy now.

Someone is running towards them. She tenses but doesn’t take her eyes off him, hoping she can at least reach him in the end. Some romantic part of her hopes that their relationship, even if it’s ended, gives her some way to talk him back to life.

“Scott. Come on. Move away,” Stiles says.

It’s been a while since she heard him so scared. Even after Derek’s death he’d been reserved, holding everything back. She knows he can’t lose anyone else. The flare in Scott’s hand burns brightly, sparking in the night.

“There’s no hope, Stiles. I can’t- I can’t protect anybody. Everyone’s getting hurt because of me.”

“Derek’s death wasn’t your fault,” Allison says, trying to reach him, “You know that, Scott. It wasn’t your fault.”

He shakes his head and she realizes _that’s not it._ It’s not the pain that’s eating at him. It’s something else. Scott looks down at his feet and for a terrifying moment, she thinks he’ll let go of the flare. Instead he talks, the smell of gasoline heavy in the air.

“It was better before,” he says quietly, “when I was no one. When no one could get hurt because of me. If I’m no one again…this will stop. It’ll all stop.”

“You’re not no one,” Stiles says, stepping forward.

“Don’t-,” Allison starts, shocked, but then she stops.

Because maybe Stiles is the only one that can really get through to him. Maybe their friendship- their brotherhood- is something stronger than whatever other relationships he might have. After all, Stiles has stood by Scott for years. He’s been with him through the change, the fights, the battles. He’s done more than most people have and he’s human.

Which is what they keep forgetting, she thinks. They may be werewolves but they’re still humans. Half, at least. There is room in them for more than just terror and fighting.

“You’re not no one, Scott. You’re my brother. You were there when I had no friends. You were there when _I_ decided to go into the woods that night. No matter what. If you go, you’re gonna have to take me with you.”

There’s salt in the air. Rain, tears- everything is washing over them. Part of her wonders if any of this is real. It seems dreamlike, a nightmare designed to make them suffer. To remind them that they’re only teenagers. There isn’t much they can do in the face of whatever is hunting them.

Except Stiles takes the flare away from Scott and they’re both safe, standing there, alive and well.

Alive, and Scott’s eyes are glowing the color of an Alpha’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure that was much more canon than I intended and was expected of me. It's the after part I'm getting around to. Mostly I just wanted this to heighten the sense of stress. It was kind of a false lull. Anyways, enjoy and I'll post another soon!


	11. Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group return from the disastrous trip and go their separate ways. While Lydia follows an instinct, Scott and Stiles remember to support and rely on each other. Then one of them promptly does the exact opposite.

“…thank you. For saving me.”

“That was _me_ ,” Stiles says, incredulous, “and Allison-,”

“Yeah,” Scott interrupts, gazing at Ethan with restrained hope, “no problem.”

 _Well, fine,_ Stiles thinks. It’s not like he’s the one that’s been trying to act as mediator. He’s starting to get tired of being treated- well, as a kid. A human. Maybe that’s what he is, but it doesn’t mean he’s not strong.

“One of two things will happen,” Ethan continues, voice low, “Either you’re going to have to kill your pack or Kali will kill you. She didn’t appreciate Derek killing Ennis.”

Stiles watches him go, taking a seat near the back of the bus. He sighs through his nose, rubbing his face. Finstock had chewed them out when he’d found the group sleeping on the bus in the morning. Not that it had been that enthusiastic- he’d also broken the news that the meet was canceled.

Which is all well and good, Stiles thinks, but now they have to go back and face both the Alphas and the Darach.

He wishes he could fall asleep on the bus as they head back, the morning light barely breaking over the sky. Instead he stays awake, thumbing through the pages of a book he stole from Deaton’s collection. Rituals and spells and assorted magic. He hopes maybe, despite the way things have gone recently, no one is attacked immediately after they get back.

It’s the least he’s willing to hope for.

-

The first thing she does is go to the school.

Not for schoolwork, of course; she’d finished everything she was going to miss a week before the trip. She is always on top of her schoolwork. No, she goes to the school because it’s all she knows how to do. It’s all she can do.

Her low boots click on the tiles and she grips the edges of her jean jacket, looking around every corner. Maybe this is what she’s capable of but it doesn’t mean she likes it.

“Why did we need to come here first?” Allison asks, tired.

“There’s something here,” Lydia says, suddenly stopping in the hallway. _There has to be._ “Three students and one teacher so far- I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“What are you doing?”

“Listening.”

She stands in place, breathing in deeply, trying to concentrate. She has no idea how this works and it frustrates her. If there was just a way- a method, she could practice. Hone it. Learn how to use whatever power she has to help her friends.

Instead, all she gets are vague whispers and auditory hallucinations.

 _Not_ , someone hisses, the voice echoing in her mind. She tilts her head, concentrating. Not Allison. Another voice- something in-between. There and not there.

“Do you hear that?” she breathes.

“No.”

 _Good,_ she thinks, _then it’s real._ The whispers continue. _Give. Awake. BURN._ She starts running down the hallway, light at first, then faster. Allison is following her, boots echoing in the empty school. She follows the voice, skidding to a halt in front of a classroom. _There._ She opens the door slowly, slipping inside.

There are papers on the desk. She moves a hand over them, shuffling, spreading them like cards. D. A. R…

“Darach?” she whispers, realization bubbling to the surface, “Allison…whose classroom is this?”

-

He drops Scott off at home. They both sit in a strange silence, looking at the garage door. _What do I say?_ He could be angry. Tell Scott that this is what happens when he keeps people out of the loop. That’s not entirely true, though- Derek probably would have ended up gone no matter what, especially if he’d been throwing himself in harm’s way with Cora around.

He could be sorry. Tell Scott it’s not his fault, again, remind him that now they have bigger things to worry about- like how he’s apparently an Alpha and the next target. He could apologize for not being there as much as he should have been, pledge to keep in touch better, and ask to join Scott on his training romps with Jackson and the other Betas.

Instead, he’s pulled into a hug for the second time in as many days.

“Thank you,” Scott says.

“No, dude- thank you. Even without a werewolf nose, I know we reek of bus.”

Scott laughs and he feels the weight inside him lift a fraction, the pressure relieved by the simple knowledge that they’re not as broken as he thought they were.

“We really do smell. I’m going to shower,” Scott says, nose wrinkled when he pulls away. Stiles smacks his back as he leaves, making a face.

_Time to go home._

Time to unload his soul, he thinks. Time to wash off the grime of the motel, the near-suicides, the disaster of an attack that had taken place without him, the looming knowledge that Derek is dead.

He is mourning something that never really existed. When he pulls into the driveway, he waits in the car for a second, motor still running. _I could go,_ he thinks. Into the woods or to the old rail station. Somewhere the man’s ghost still lingers, with dry words and expressive eyebrows. Somewhere he can remember Derek leaning on his shoulder, saving his life, coming out to meet him…

Except he can’t. He can’t run away anymore; he’s so tired and all he wants is to hide in his bed and cry. He’s thankful his father is at work, gone until late at night. Away long enough for him to bleach the tears out of his bones and wash the salt from his sheets. He turns the car off and goes inside, the silence greeting him like an old friend.

Silence and something else. There’s something lingering- the feeling you get when someone has just moved through a room before you. The air is displaced, particles still humming after an intrusion. _Dad?_ No; the man left for work hours ago. It’s noon now and there should be no one here. He wonders vaguely if it’s an Alpha, here to kill or abduct him as a pawn. He knows he put on quite a show at the bank. He climbs the stairs hesitantly, wondering just what it is he’ll find at the end of the hallway.

He opens his door, not sure what horror lies within, and nearly collapses to his knees. He staggers, ears ringing, and grabs the side of his bookcase. Something flakes off, sticky on his hand. He looks down at it, the reddish-brown blood chipped like old paint.

“Derek,” he says, hoping against hope, stumbling to the bed.

The man is laying there, motionless. He almost looks peaceful and Stiles knows then that he’s not dead. Death is not peaceful- it’s vacant. He’s seen death and it is not the slumber people describe it as. There’s something _missing._ Derek is not missing something. He is there, ragged and pale and barely holding on, but he’s _alive._

“Derek. Derek, it’s me, it’s Stiles- come on, wake up,” he says, trying to get the man to open his damned eyes. He thinks maybe he’s crying because his face feels warm and wet and the blood on his hands is old.

His mind races. He doesn’t know what to do. All he can think is that he should get Derek clean so he can see the wounds and try to fix them. _You’re not bad at this,_ he can hear Allison saying, _you just need practice._

Well, he has a live subject now. A subject whose life may depend on him.

_Do I call Allison? Scott?_

He feels like a hypocrite. Just minutes ago, he was resolving to be more open with his friends and now he’s debating whether or not to tell them that their presumed-dead friend is actually alive. Well- for now.

 _Being dead has its benefits,_ a small voice in his mind says. It sounds suspiciously like Peter. He bites his lip, knowing every second is costing Derek.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, springing to his feet.

He’s in a hurry, terrified, but things immediately come to mind- like how there’s carpet everywhere and Derek has already stained his sheets. He tears out of the room, finding an old blanket, and throws it on the ground. The bathroom isn’t far but he can’t risk getting anything on the carpet. Not with a father who’s in law enforcement.

The hard part is rolling Derek onto the sheet. The man is heavy- even without the werewolf strength he’s stupidly in shape. Stiles has to push against him as much as he can, knowing every wrong move could hurt the man even more. He barely catches Derek as the man falls off the bed, lessening the impact with his arms.

 _This is how it must feel to bury a body,_ he thinks, panicked humor making him laugh hysterically as he tugs the sheet towards the bathroom. His arms are on fire and his body is bruised, still recovering from the motel escapade. He’s running on fumes, adrenaline and panic the only things keeping him going.

“Come _on_ , you asshole, _wake up,_ ” he curses, sure now that he’s crying because the world blurs around him for a second. He blinks furiously, trying to focus on the task at hand.

He practically throws Derek into the tub, peeling the man’s shirt off and fumbling at his jeans. Nothing about it is intimate. It is terror and dread, the thought of having a dead werewolf- a dead _Derek_ \- in his bathtub making him move faster. He can’t watch someone die in front of him. Not again.

He sprints to his room and throws open a drawer. It hangs crookedly, almost entirely out of the tracks, but he ignores it and throws things around as he looks for the kit. _There._ A tiny present from Allison- sterilized and ready for use. _It was supposed to be for me,_ he thinks, wanting to laugh and cry even more. It was supposed to be for him, the human, and now he’s using it on Derek, the healing werewolf.

“Everything about today is wrong,” he vents, running back to the bathroom. He runs the water warm, using a washcloth to wipe away blood. The water runs wine-red as he works. “This whole _year_ has been wrong, this is wrong- you were _wrong,_ Derek, and I need you to wake up so I can chew your ass out!”

He’s sobbing, a part of his mind helpfully notes. Sobbing and crying and probably getting salt in Derek’s wounds.

Or wound, as it is.

A bruised, bloody, gaping tear in the man’s chest. If it were any other day he might have thrown up or passed out. He can’t now, disconnecting from his mind and telling himself that he has to concentrate. He has to fix Derek.

He drains the bloody water, deciding Derek is clean enough, and pulls out the needle. It’s already threaded and he thanks the stars for Allison, reminding himself to buy her a nice dagger later. His fingers hesitate at the edge of the wound and all he can think of is that _it won’t work. I can’t do it._

“Derek,” he manages, sniffling as he tries to hold back his sobs, “I need you to wake up. I need you to show me you want to live. Show me. Show me how strong you are. I know you- I _know_ you. Come on, sourwolf. Threaten me like you always do. Tell me you’re gonna rip my throat out. Anything. Please.”

He’s begging now. The needle shines in his hand, mocking, and he bends forward. _Fine,_ he thinks.

“Fine. Don’t wake up, asshole. That’s fine. I’m just gonna have to wake you up myself. Not like _I_ should be sleeping. It’s not like I just spent the worst night of my life at a _suicide hotel,_ trying to keep my friends from _offing_ themselves.

“It’s not like I haven’t slept right in years! It’s not like I really want to get back to being a kid, or going to school, or just living without having to worry about whether someone will die at any given point! Not like I-,”

There’s a small noise- tiny, barely audible under his tirade, but just there. A moan. He has to restrain himself from flailing, reminding himself that he’s in the middle of stitching up a wound.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you, _jerk._ I couldn’t hear you past your eyebrows and your _bad ideas_ , running off to face an Alpha pack without me. Without _Chris Argent,_ the veteran hunter. Without so many people that could have helped you.”

He wants to hear something again but he doesn’t, so he contents himself with finishing the stitches. He doesn’t want to leave Derek, conflicted about whether he should shower or not. He decides not to, instead taking his sheets and throwing them in the wash with a metric ton of detergent and bleach. He practically sprints back up the stairs afterward, making sure there are no signs of blood between his room and the bathroom.

He puts a sign up on the door just in case- something he thinks he might have written in another universe, where he is just a normal teenager. A silly sign that says _Under Construction,_ little skulls and wavy smell-scribbles decorating the sides. At least he knows his father doesn’t use the bathroom and won’t come in anyways.

When he’s done, he slumps by the bathtub and stares at Derek, thinking maybe he can wish the man alive with a glare and the last bit of energy he has left.

-

_“Wake up. Wake up, you stupid asshole. I love you.”_

The voice floats somewhere at the edges of his hearing. He strains to reach towards it but his body is heavy. _Stiles?_ His heart lifts just a little. _At least I can hear him one more time._

He almost relaxes. Almost. Then the voice comes again, louder this time.

_“You’re a selfish jerk, Derek. You’re just going to leave me, aren’t you? Like everyone else. Like always. Why? Because I’m human? Annoying? What is it about me that makes me so hard to love?”_

He wants to protest. _You’re not hard to love, Stiles. It’s so easy. So easy it’s scary._ He tries to pull himself further up- Stiles is hurting and he has to get back, has to tell him, even if it’s the last thing he does on earth.

_“You gave up. You’re giving up now. Are you really going to give me up? Before we even start?”_

He fights the darkness, desperate. Every word aches. _I don’t want to,_ he thinks, his limbs feeling like they’re on fire. He doesn’t want to give this up- doesn’t want to abandon Stiles, his family, everyone else- he doesn’t want to leave. Doesn’t want to go before he’s actually lived. Before he’s figured everything out.

_“You can’t die, Derek. We’re in the middle of a war and I want you by my side. If you’re going to leave me, the least you can do is give me a chance to tell you I love you. Just one minute to tell you how much I love your stupid eyebrows and your dumb sarcasm and your arms and-,”_

He can’t finish. He’s crying. Derek realizes he’s never heard Stiles cry, never really seen him break down aside from the brief tears he’d shed over Lydia and Jackson’s reunion. He hates that it’s his death that made Stiles cry. He wants to pull out of the darkness, hold him close and promise he’ll be there.

 _I have to go back,_ he thinks, concentrating on the feeling of fire spreading in his body. The warmth burning its way around. He thinks about healing, knitting together ragged edges and closing up remnants of an ill-advised battle. He’s not sure how long he lies there, wherever he is, thinking about fixing himself. He’s only aware of a gradual awareness, the solid feeling of being in his body coming back to him. He can feel his arms and legs, his head propped on something soft, the smell of antiseptic and soap.

He is aware of someone holding his hand. Long fingers curled in a tight grip even as Stiles sleeps on the hard floor, brow knit in worry. He realizes he can move, turning his head to look at their hands. He grips Stiles’ hand tightly, relishing the feeling of his skin. There’s a sharp inhale from the sleeping form and then honey-brown eyes blink open, focusing, widening to fill with tears.

“Derek-,”

“That’s asshole to you,” he says, voice hoarse. He tries to smile.

Stiles practically throws himself into the tub, somehow keeping himself suspended away from Derek’s sore chest, crying unashamedly. Derek sighs, curling his arms around Stiles’ body, enjoying the faint scent of _Stiles_ underneath the layers of blood and grime and disinfectant.

“You _scared_ me,” Stiles gasps, sniffling as he tries to control his breathing. His eyes are red.

“Really? I guess I can outdo the Alphas after all,” Derek smiles, hands moving to rest on Stiles’ arms. He is drinking up every touch he can, wanting nothing more than to absorb everything.

“You’re staring,” Stiles says, voice a little low, “Are you sure you’re not brain damaged?”

“I was before, remember?”

“Derek-,”

“I can’t really move like this. Will you kiss me?”

He loves the way Stiles blushes. It certainly isn’t graceful, bright red against his pale skin. It’s real, though, and so very human. He can’t help himself. It looks so beautiful that he resolves to make Stiles blush as much as possible.

“You- why- you can’t just… _ask_ that,” Stiles sputters, red-faced, but he’s already leaning down, “I hate you, you stupid _werewolf_ \- of course I’m going to kiss you.”

Stiles tastes like the salt from his tears and something else- sleep, maybe, or the bitterness of all the pain he’s been through in the last few weeks. The kiss ends too soon and Stiles leans back, scrutinizing. _What?_ Derek raises an eyebrow, waiting, and then Stiles smiles. His grin is like the sun, making his eyes golden and bright.

“We’re fucking gross, dude. We both need a good shower- and some food.”

“We need _a_ shower?” he asks, smirking. Stiles flushes again- _thank God_ \- and climbs out of the tub, studiously avoiding Derek’s eyes.

“You almost died. I’m not leaving you alone again. Don’t worry, we’ll protect your purity and leave your underwear on.”

“Just me.”

“No! God, dude, don’t tempt me. I’m a minor for another year, remember? My dad’s probably gonna shoot you anyway once he finds out.”

 _Once he does._ Derek is momentarily thrown off. He hadn’t thought past the next day and suddenly, Stiles is making allusions to their future relationship. Future, _continued_ relationship.

“Oh, good, I found the off button-,” Stiles starts to say, yanking clothes out of a drawer, and then Derek turns him with one hand.

He sighs into the kiss. He wants to hide here, forever exploring Stiles’ mouth, the whole world quiet around them. Especially when Stiles pulls him closer, arms draped over his shoulders. They’re about the same height and Derek wonders, _will he be taller than me,_ trying to imagine what it would be like. He doesn’t think he’d hate it.

“Mmn- mkay, come on,” Stiles groans, pulling away, “this needs to stop. We need to shower- we’re both exhausted and _I’m_ starving. Come on. At this rate, we’ll just be frustrated and smelly, standing in the middle of my room with awkward boners while my dad comes in with his shotgun.”

“You threatened to tell him once, remember?”

“Yeah, I do,” Stiles says, throwing a t-shirt at his face ( _softly, so softly, like his kiss_ ) before he leads the way to another bathroom, “that threat still stands. Come on, sourwolf, you’re not getting any rosier.”

He shakes his head and smiles, following Stiles, marveling at his life. One moment he’s laying himself down to die and the next he’s kissing Stiles, thinking about their future and how they’re going to navigate telling his father at some point. He wonders what the next few hours are going to bring and decides he doesn’t care as long as the next few minutes are good.

They’ve earned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! What I was leading up to! I'm so glad it's done. Sorry if these chapters have seemed short, by the way. I always want to separate the heavy portions, especially since it feels more episodic that way. Next we'll have to face the Darach and figure out whether Derek is going to play his 'death' card or not. Enjoy!


	12. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek try to stop the next sacrifice before it happens and Lydia reveals what she's learned. Unfortunately, without a clear indication of who's next, the pack can do little to prepare for the next round of abductions.

Stiles practically inhales his burger.

It had taken a lot to pry himself away from Derek- or rather, pry Derek off him. He had convinced the man to let him go, citing his lack of groceries and their mutual exhaustion. It had taken a lot, though, especially since they were both still buzzing from the afterglow of more than a couple of kisses.

“Slow down,” Derek says through a mouthful.

“Sorry, what was that?” Stiles snorts, “I couldn’t hear through that _mouthful of food_ -,”

He’s cut off by a flying french fry, which he catches with his mouth. Derek just rolls his eyes and Stiles chuckles, swirling his cup to dislodge some ice. He’s not sure what any of the next few hours hold for them. He’s just glad that the next few minutes will be filled with food. Company. The knowledge that Derek isn’t dead.

“What happened?”

It’s an innocuous question. Simple. Uncomplicated. Except Stiles knows the truth behind it and he almost chokes on his spirit, the final remnants of his fortitude splintering like wood.

“I…we stopped at a motel. Scott and Boyd and one of the twins- Ethan- tried to kill themselves. They were kind of possessed. Thankfully, we made it back in time for me to find you staining my sheets. I’m charging you if the blood doesn’t come out.”

He sounds half-hysterical and unbalanced. It’s shocking he doesn’t sound completely unhinged at this point. Derek pauses, shifting in his seat, a whine sticking in his throat. His hand reaches across the table, warm and heavy on Stiles’ skin, reassuring.

“I’m sorry.”

“You were dead, Derek, I’m pretty sure you would have been more than useless. Anyways- I need to call Scott. He needs to know you’re back.”

“…this could be useful,” Derek says grudgingly, poking one of Stiles’ tater tots. Stiles slaps his hand halfheartedly, sighing through his nose.

“Yeah. But we can’t lie to each other. You’re gonna have to trust us to keep a secret.”

“…I trust you,” Derek grumbles, moodily chewing on his straw.

_I swear to God,_ Stiles thinks, _he never grew up._ He’s half horrified and half (more) in love with the way Derek is acting. He hides his smirk in his palm, rubbing his mouth as he scrolls through the contacts in his phone. He’s about to dial when his phone buzzes and he almost jumps, shooting Derek a glare when the main raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“ _Stiles? Where are you?_ ”

“Lydia? What’s wrong?” he asks, immediately getting up from the table. Nervousness races in his veins.

“ _Where are you?”_

“Home. Listen, I-,”

“ _It’s the teacher. It’s-_ ,”

The connection crackles and Stiles curses, racing towards the front door, yanking his shoes on. He can hear Derek close behind him, reaching for one of Stiles’ hoodies.

“Lydia? Lydia, can you hear me?” Stiles asks, urgent. He grabs his keys and slips a finger through the ring instinctively, throwing the door open.

He runs to his Jeep, Derek close behind, and then the silence falls. He stops, hand freezing on the door handle, a chill running up his spine. Derek calls his name and he barely hears it, stepping away from the car to look towards the figure at the end of the driveway.

It is shadowy and dark. He can’t make it out but he suddenly _knows_.

“Let’s go!” he screams, throwing the car door open and jumping in. He doesn’t wait for Derek, sure the man is following.

When he backs out of the driveway, the figure is gone. He drives too fast, heart racing, and Derek’s voice comes back into focus suddenly.

“-es. Stiles, where are we going?”

“Deaton,” he says, sure that it’s right, “we need to get to Deaton.”

He pulls his phone out again as he drives, fumbling, and then Derek’s hand is reassuring on his arm. He glances at it briefly, a rush of gratitude overcoming him, and takes a breath.

“ _Stiles? What’s wrong?_ ”

“I need you two to get to Scott. Find him and make sure he and Isaac are safe. Call Allison, too.”

“ _She’s with Lydia,_ ” Erica says, “ _they went to the school._ ”

“Okay. All right- they should be fine but we need to be sure.”

“ _What’s happening?_ ”

“We know who the Darach is and I think we can figure out who it’s targeting next. Just make sure everyone’s safe.”

“ _What about you?_ ”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, glancing at Derek, “and I’m bringing a friend.”

-

Stiles pulls into the parking lot and reaches for something in his backseat. Derek blinks, mildly perturbed by the metal bat. He raises an eyebrow in question.

“You have fangs and claws,” Stiles reminds him, shrugging as he jumps out.

They reach the doors just as lights flash, a familiar sound echoing. Derek glances at Stiles, who is sighing yet again. _That’s been happening a lot lately._

“I can-,” Derek starts, wanting to help, but Stiles shakes his head.

“My dad. My problem. Just- get to Deaton if you have to.”

The man walks up to them, looking tired- or perhaps just weary. He glances between them, a hostile expression directed towards Derek, and his mouth is a line of disapproval.

“Son-,”

“Deaton’s inside. He’s the next victim,” Stiles says firmly.

Derek makes a strangled noise, shocked, trying to ask _what the hell are you thinking?_ Stiles catches his eye and shrugs. Derek isn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed.

“And how do you know that?”

“Pattern. Dad- we need to get to him. Please.”

“Stiles, I don’t know what you’re doing with Derek Hale or why you think Deaton’s the next victim, but I can’t just let you go in-,”

“Okay, then come with us,” Stiles says, turning, and Derek opens his mouth to protest.

He’s too late, as usual, because Stiles pushes the doors open and walks in. Derek looks at the sheriff, apologetic and worried, and he thinks there’s a tiny sense of kinship in their expressions. Tiny. Very, incredibly tiny.

Stiles inches through the clinic, gazing around the rooms, and then puts a hand on the door to the familiar back room. He glances at Derek, questioning. Asking for support.

“Do it,” Derek murmurs, nodding briefly. Somehow, he misses the way Stiles’ father watches them. Later he curses himself for being stupid.

It doesn’t matter that there isn’t blood at the house; the man knows exactly what’s going on between them.

“Jesu- fuck, help me, Der,” Stiles says, clambering onto a countertop to release the man’s wrists.

Deaton is hanging by some sort of thin rope, half-conscious and tied to one of the pipes above their heads. Derek moves quickly, jumping to cut the rest of the rope restraining the man.

“Stiles,” Deaton coughs, “Nice to see you. And Derek.”

“Hey, doc,” Stiles says, “You wouldn’t happen to know the next set of three, would you?”

“…sheriff,” Deaton says carefully, as if reminding, and Derek looks back at the man.

He looks resigned. Derek hopes the man doesn’t think they’re involved but he doesn’t hold much hope to begin with. The man sighs, holstering his weapon, rubbing his face tiredly.

“This is important,” Stile says, aggravated, “it already…okay- Derek, talk. I’ll be back.”

Derek watches Stiles pull his father away, hoping everything is all right. The two disappear around the corner, already talking in whispered undertones. Deaton rubs his wrists, wiping them carefully with a wet towel.

“What are they saying?” the man asks casually. Derek blinks, uneasy. Deaton simply raises his eyebrows, expression challenging.

“…Stiles is telling his father we’re not involved. That it’s not a simple killer.”

“That must be going well for him.”

“His father doesn’t want him involved,” Derek says quietly. “Wants him to go home.”

He can’t help but agree- except he knows, now more than ever, that there is no going home. Not for any of them. They can’t just pretend not to know or pretend not to be involved. _Whatever happens, family is going to get involved. Whether we like it or not._

“Well, I’ll just tell you, then. While we’re here. The next set is guardians. It’s the last set. After this, the Darach will be ready to do whatever it is it came for.”

“Who? What guardians?” Derek asks, trying to find the right questions. _Think like Stiles. What would he ask?_

“I don’t know,” Deaton says, “but consider this: whoever is doing this thinks they’re justified. They’ve gone after very specific people for a very specific reason.”

Stiles walks back into the room, expression anxious, and Derek immediately moves to get closer to him. He registers Deaton’s raised eyebrow and hesitates, foot suspended mid-step.

“He’s bringing in others,” Stiles says, glancing over his shoulder, “they’re going to need to talk to Deaton.”

His words are apologetic but the man nods, looking down at his sore wrists.

“You need to figure out who’s doing this. Who’s next.”

“We will,” Stiles promises, firm. He pauses then, hesitating, looking over at Derek. “I think…I noticed a change. Scott’s eyes. They’re…they were Alpha-,”

“…a True Alpha,” Deaton murmurs, recognition flickering in his eyes, “Rare. Incredibly rare- there’s perhaps one every hundred years. That must be why Deucalion is after him.”

“Him? I thought he was after Derek-,”

“No,” Derek murmurs, thinking. _Not really. They just wanted me out of the way._ “No, they only used me to try and get the others out of the way. With Erica and Boyd out of the way and Cora back, it would be easy for them to get to Scott.”

“Okay. We need to go- _now_ ,” Stiles says, frustrated. He turns on his heel and walks towards the back door, grabbing his keys from his pocket.

Deaton follows them, pulling something out of a drawer and tossing it towards Stiles. Derek wrinkles his nose as it flies by, the smell burning. _Wolfsbane?_

“Be careful,” Deaton cautions, “You have two problems now.”

“Yeah, what else is new,” Stiles mutters, peering around the corner before jogging towards his car.

Derek slides in easily alongside Stiles. He watches Stiles turn the wheel, biting his bottom lip as he peels away. In the distance, Derek can see the sheriff standing in the doorway to the clinic, a resigned expression written across his face. _Stiles just ignored his father,_ Derek realizes, wondering how bad it is. He hates everything for a blinding moment- hates that Stiles is involved, hates that teenagers are being drawn Deucalion’s bizarre power struggle, hates that some Darach is killing people.

“Hey. I need you with me,” Stiles says suddenly, honey-brown eyes flicking towards Derek as he drives.

“I’m here,” Derek reassures, shifting in his seat, “I’m fine. Healed.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Stiles says softly, “This isn’t your fault, Derek. None of it is your fault.”

“…I drove them away.”

“Erica and Boyd? Well, not to burst your bubble, but they weren’t really the pack type. I don’t know what any of you expected when you turned them.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Derek agrees, frustrated, “it was a stupid idea.”

“Good. You know what else was stupid?”

_He’s on edge._ Stiles’ fingers are gripping the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. Derek holds his breath. He can feel the ache in his chest growing.

“Stiles-,”

“You charging in on the Alphas. _Not_ telling Chris Argent, who has years of experience. Not telling _me_ -,” his voice cracks a little and his hand flies to his mouth as if he can hold back the words.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, immediately reaching for Stiles’ hand, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry-,”

He repeats it like a prayer and Stiles grips his hand tightly, breathing evenly to control himself. They pull up to Scott’s house, other cars parked along the sidewalk, and Stiles sighs. He turns in his seat, waiting a moment before opening his door.

“Promise me that you’ll listen. That you’ll let us help each other.”

“I promise.”

Stiles nods, sniffing, and climbs out of his car. He knocks on the front door and it opens, Melissa’s perpetually concerned expression greeting them.

“Oh, good. Just what I need. More werewolves.”

-

He wishes he’d thought to record their reactions.

Peter looks minutely relieved- he’s hiding behind everyone else, though, and probably thinks he can’t be seen. Cora just looks certain.

Everyone else is suitably shocked. Lydia is sitting with Allison and Jackson, papers stacked on the table at her arm. Erica and Boyd are with Isaac, close together and nervous. Scott is standing with Allison- but not Chris. _Huh._

“So. Things have happened,” Stiles says, trying for a lighthearted tone.

“Where did _he_ come from?” Jackson asks, “Last time I checked, he was down for the count. Permanently.”

“He fucking bled all over my bed, that’s where he came from,” Stiles snorts, “and he isn’t the problem right now. So- can we focus? Lydia, you said you knew who the Darach is?”

She raises a perfect eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. She seems to question him with her expression- _we’re not talking about this? Fine._ She gives up and raises her hands, sighing as she shuffles through the papers on the table.

“Our new teacher. Jennifer Blake. It seems like, whatever her true purpose, she’s imitating a druid. Whatever she wants, she needs power for it.”

“Deucalion said she’s taking guardians next, whatever that means,” Derek says, “and she thinks she’s justified.”

“Most villains do,” Stiles sighs, rubbing his face with a tired hand, “Okay. We all need to stay together. No being alone, no trying to charge headfirst into confrontation. If you encounter any Alphas, you need to get away and get help as soon as possible.”

“We can’t wait for her to kill someone else,” Scott says, “we need to make a move.”

“…well, does anyone else think it’s convenient that the Alphas showed up at the same time the Darach started killing people?” Allison asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Causation and correlation aren’t the same thing,” Lydia points out, “and the Alphas didn’t seem to know about her.”

“No…but maybe she knows about them. They do technically kill their own. Some would see that as morally wrong,” Peter smirks, directing the comment at Derek.

Stiles shoots him a look. _Not helping._ True but not helping. He worries at his bottom lip, thinking. There’s really not much they can do.

“So maybe she knows them- but wouldn’t we know by now? The twins are going to the school now. And we can’t just go up and ask; at least one of them doesn’t like us.”

“I may…be able to do something about that,” Lydia says cautiously.

Stiles almost opens his mouth to protest- _too dangerous, you can’t_ \- but he shuts it, thinking. They don’t know anything about her powers yet or even if the twins are still dangerous. _Ethan did kind of thank Scott._ He bites his tongue, looking to Scott.

“…okay- Allison, Isaac, can you keep an eye on her just in case?”

“Of course,” Allison says, arms crossed, “but we need to do this quickly. We only have tomorrow. If she’s taking someone from school, it’ll probably be right before the weekend. Less chances of them being missed.”

“Okay. All right- for now, I suggest we pretend Derek is dead. It’ll help us in the long run. So, Lydia will get the information we need and the rest of us have to avoid the Alphas like the plague,” Stiles sighs.

“Already got that covered,” Erica raises her eyebrows.

“Just- keep an eye on each other and _please_ don’t do anything stupid. Okay?”

They start to move around and Stiles hangs back, letting people pass, considering his choices. He edges towards Melissa, still worrying at his bottom lip. She looks concerned for a moment when she sees him, brow furrowed. _She can already tell something’s wrong._

“Can I ask you for something?”

“Of course, honey. What is it?”

“I…ran into my dad at the clinic. He’s seen Derek and he knows that we know something about the sacrifices. Just…can you keep an eye out for him? If anything happens? I know it’s a lot-,”

“I will,” she interrupts, calming, her hands on his arms. He feels like crying. Something about her presence has always been soothing- _the nurse training at work._ “But I think you need to consider telling him. About this- all of it.”

“I know,” he says, still fighting against the prospect, hoping it won’t come to that, “Thank you.”

He starts to leave and then he’s caught by Scott, Isaac standing nearby with a studiously disinterested look. Stiles sends him a pointed look. _I know you can hear me._

“Hey. What are you thinking about Derek?”

_A lot of things, none of which are appropriate,_ Stiles thinks, clearing his throat and trying to do the same to his mind. He shrugs, glancing over his shoulder to where the man is standing by the door. He almost stops breathing when he realizes Derek is wearing one of his hoodies. It doesn’t fit, of course, but Stiles buys them oversized so it isn’t stupidly tight either. _Shame._

“He needs to lay low. The Alphas think he’s dead; I say we use that. If they don’t know he’s a player, we can get a shot at pulling a trump card on them.”

“Okay,” Scott says, “but we might also need all the help we can get in a fight.”

“We’ll be fine,” Stiles says firmly, “they won’t kill anyone.”

“That doesn’t really make me feel any better,” Scott says, smiling tiredly, “Hey- my dad’s in town. I don’t know what you know but he’s investigating. At some point, he might figure out that all the people dying are related to us.”

“Yeah, well, small town,” Stiles snorts, “If we need to, we’ll get Peter to distract him.”

“That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Scott smiles. It’s a relieving turn to normality, Stiles thinks. He wishes they had more moments like this.

“Listen- Deaton mentioned something about you being a True Alpha. He said something about it being rare and that Deucalion- blind leader dude- is probably after you for that reason.”

“True Alpha?”

“I don’t know what it is but if Deaton says it’s rare, it’s probably a powerful thing to be. Watch out for yourself, okay?”

“Yeah. You too,” Scott says, earnest.

_I’ll try,_ Stiles thinks, _but the last few days have kind of proven that’s impossible._

-

“I need to know something. I’m not playing around,” she says, books tucked against her chest.

The look on his face clearly says he’s expecting something else. A nice face, she thinks. Maybe in another situation she’d actually take him up on his clear offers. Now, however, she has other things to worry about. Like a murderous Darach.

“What?” Aiden smirks, leaning against his locker.

“Do you know Jennifer Blake?”

An innocuous question but one she can gauge a reaction from. She watches his face- confusion, amusement.

“The teacher?”

“You don’t know her? From anywhere else? She’s not…familiar?”

“…you think I’m having an affair with her?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in a move that says _you’re crazy._

She almost groans in disappointment. _Our one chance,_ she thinks, _and now it’s gone._ Part of her wants to smack Aiden for his assumption and another part wants to smack him for not knowing what’s going on with his pack. _How many people has he- have they double-crossed? Would they even remember her if they’d hurt her?_

Not that she can judge. She isn’t a hypocrite. Part of her recognizes that werewolves, whether intentionally or not, happen to leave trails of destruction in their wake. Even minimizing damage is difficult. People have already been killed in Deucalion’s attempts to recruit Derek and Scott.

“Never mind,” she smiles, brushing the questions off with a toss of her hair and a slow once-over. Easy distractions. “It was silly.”

He looks like he wants to agree. She turns away, ready to leave, and realizes the halls are empty. There is no one around. _It’s a Friday,_ she tells herself, but the emptiness unnerves her. Something is wrong. She can hear it in the air the same way she heard it before. She looks around, heart rate picking up. Aiden says something she can’t hear.

Allison is suddenly at her side.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, tense, a dagger in hand.

“What the hell-,” Aiden starts to say, glaring at Allison, but Lydia shushes him.

She raises her hands, trying to silence them. A phone rings. She turns a little, frustrated, and Isaac answers it, apologetic.

“Yes?” he murmurs, glancing around the hallway. “What? Why-,”

The doors to the school open and Lydia starts, heart racing.

“What are you four doing here?” the sheriff asks, suspicious. He already has one hand on his gun, on edge. _He can sense it too, even if it’s just a small feeling._

A door at the end of the hallway slams open. Allison pulls her against a locker, wincing as papers fly around them in a sudden whirlwind. They flinch away from the chaos and someone walks out of the doorway.

“It’s her,” Lydia says, backing away, “the Darach.”

“That’s not nice,” Jennifer snarls, standing at the end of the hallway.

“Stay back!” the sheriff shouts, gun rising, and Lydia sees the moment a spark enters Jennifer’s eyes. _No,_ she thinks.

Allison throws one of her daggers. Isaac is running towards the end of the hall. Lydia backs away from the fight, watching as Aiden turns a corner and leaves. _So much for that,_ she thinks, both unsurprised and disappointed.

Jennifer bats Isaac aside like a fly. He hits the lockers, dazed, and starts to get to his feet. Lydia sees the woman advance. Something catches in her throat- an instinct, something she fights to keep down. _I’m not afraid,_ she tells herself, knowing it’s true, but somehow the urge still takes her.

She screams.

Locker doors fly open. The force pushes Jennifer back, if only a little. Allison looks back at her friend, amazed. The sheriff wavers next to her, pausing in his advance towards the teacher.

“Banshee,” Jennifer chuckles, half out of breath, “Too bad you can’t use that voice properly.”

_Banshee?_ She breathes heavily, trying to think of how to make it work right, and then Jennifer advances. _No,_ she thinks, trying to help, trying to fight, but it’s already too late.

By the time they get back to their feet, the sheriff and Jennifer are gone.

-

She feels it first. An itch up her spine. Her skin shivers and she clenches her fist, staring at the lockers. She’s been waiting for this.

Aiden is alone. She had made sure of that- Ethan is with Danny, probably wavering even more than he already was. Aiden is without his twin. Just an Alpha. He has no play against her that she doesn’t understand.

“You’re in the wrong room,” he says, cocky, one hand curling around a metal bar. It crinkles beneath his fist.

“This isn’t a game,” she says, lunging. She growls, claws scratching, feeling the rush pump through her veins.

All she knows now is the fight. Survival. The need to _kill_ him. He’s stronger than her, maybe, but she has training. She knows how to use her size to her advantage. It has been beaten into her, through years of family training and even longer years in Mexico. She fights well.

Except he’s stronger. Stupidly, frustratingly stronger. All it takes is one flip- one hit and she feels it on her head, sudden and sharp. She gasps out briefly, biting down on the sound as Aiden reaches for something nearby.

_This is it._

She feels the bitterness of defeat. The rage of failure. All she can think of is how much she wanted it to end. Wanted _him_ to end. No more pain. No more ghosts. No more Alphas threatening her life and the lives of everyone else around her. She braces for the final blow.

He steps over her instead, backpack in hand, and she wants to laugh. _I’ll come back,_ she thinks, _and I will kill you._ She knows she will heal.

Footsteps echo. She would think he’d returned but they’re lighter. Heeled. _Help?_ She thinks of Lydia, her smart words and burning eyes. Allison, sure and quiet. Not friends- not quite allies. Simply there.

Instead, she sees a teacher. A woman with dark hair, leaning over her, brushing hair away from her face. She thinks it’s a fever dream for a moment, sure it’s a hallucination. This woman has nothing to do with her. Is out of place.

“Shh,” the woman says, fingers brushing Cora’s scalp, and then the pain increases.

It burns dully and she lays there, wanting nothing more than to get up, but the pain is too much. Her eyes close and she feels her limbs grow heavy.

_Not like this,_ she thinks, the last coherent thought she has. _Not like this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot minute. Sorry! I have the rest of the story planned out, which may be only one chapter for the rest of this 'season'. I hope you've enjoyed so far. I know it's been fun reimagining the plot!


	13. Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are rapidly falling apart. The pack must try to keep the Alphas at bay on one side and the Darach in range on the other. With a pack member weak when everything finally collides, things just keep getting worse.

Allison is tired. She feels like she’s lived a hundred years. Her hands are tight on the strap of her messenger bag, nervously clenching as if they can choke the life out of the evil that’s been following her and her friends. Part of her wishes she could just go home and sleep, letting the world pass around her, things changing and resolving themselves. The feeling passes, because she is a Hunter and she is the head of the family, by tradition and rule. She is well aware that the Argents have been a matriarchal organization for centuries—the Hunters have been, for the most part. It wasn’t until recently that smaller Hunter families and teams had popped up, ignoring tradition and law to form bastard clans, their focus and direction gone. All the small Hunter teams she’s seen in the past year have been entirely made of men—they are no more than mercenaries, to her and to the legitimate Hunter families.

_The pressure I’m going to face will be hard,_ she thinks, her house coming into view. Her father had told her about it, when she’d argued with him about whether they should quit or not. She understood his reasons—he had lost a wife and a father-in-law, even if the losses had been tainted by the reality that both people had chosen paths that had turned against his. Allison has always recognized her father as a strong man; he is quiet, determined, and patient. The thing is, he’s always cared more about his family than he has the fight. Maybe it’s because of his loss—he’s lost so much, in his life as a Hunter—or maybe it’s because as time wears on, he’s realizing that he only has one daughter and he doesn’t want to risk her. Whatever it is that had made him draw back from returning to the Hunters, Allison had talked him out of it with only a few words.

_We have people to protect._

It’s the one thing that keeps her going. She’s thinking about it as her hand reaches for the front door, but then something sharp pierces the back of her neck and she freezes. The stab of foreboding puts her on edge and she slides her bag over her head, letting the strap rest over one shoulder, prepared to use it as a shield. She reaches into the side pocket, ring daggers cold on her skin, and opens the door. 

The house feels like death. There’s a taint in the air, dark and moldy, like a corpse dragged from its grave. A shiver runs up her back. No blood, she notices, and the fact makes her just a little hopeful. Her heart is pounding.

She makes a circuit of the house. Nothing is wrong—nothing is misplaced. She finally sinks to the ground, gasping for breath as if she’s been drowning. Somehow, in her fog, she manages to raise her phone to her ear, dialing blindly. The line rings and then she hears a click. She doesn’t wait for him to talk.

“My father is gone. She took him.”

* * *

He knows before he gets to Scott’s that things are bad. Lydia and Allison are already there with Scott and Isaac; Erica and Boyd are still holed up, waiting. Stiles had almost forced the others to let the two stay in.  _They’ve been through enough. They need a break._

Stiles walks into the house to hear Scott growling like he’s a freshman again, chained to a radiator and unhinged.  _Great_ .

“Sit,” Stiles says sharply, pointing at his friend. He walks to the kitchen table, throwing his backpack on it unceremoniously. It clunks heavily and Isaac sends him a suspicious look.

“My mom is gone—,” Scott starts, his voice harried, and Stiles waves him away.

“I know. I _know_. Allison’s dad is missing, too. Mine. We get it,” Stiles says sharply. He’s barely keeping himself upright, at this point. Everything is spiraling out of control.

“Where’s Derek?” Isaac asks.

“With Cora. She’s hurt.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, but given recent events, I think it’s safe to assume.” _Jennifer._ He can remember her face when the birds had hit the windows during her class. She’d seemed disturbed. _So, is she a good actor or does she not know what she’s doing? Is this like Jackson?_ He knows they can’t take any chances. Not with their parents’ lives on the line.

“So, we need to get them back. How are we going to do that?” Allison asks, tense.

“We need to find her. It would be nice if we knew what the hell she wanted, but something tells me it won’t be easy to find out.”

“Well, I might have part of the puzzle,” Allison says carefully. She looks nervous. _She knows something,_ Stiles thinks. “It looks like my dad was investigating the deaths, on the side. He had a map—it has markings for deaths and some predictions, too.”

She spreads the map onto the table and Stiles turns his head to look, curious. There are circles in different colors, perfect and foreboding. He stares at them, willing a pattern to emerge. Something. Anything to help. All he sees are colors and questions.

“It’s not much, but maybe it’ll give us a clue to where she’s going,” Allison says, biting her lip. “There are some disappearances here that I didn’t even know about. None of us did. I’m not sure how he knew.”

The unspoken theory floats in the air.  _Dad_ . Stiles can imagine it already, his father talking with Chris, giving him information quietly over the phone. Talking about the danger their children were in.  _Come on, Dad._ Now, more than ever, he’s starting to realize how much not communicating with each other could kill them.

“I have to go the station.”

* * *

“What do I do?”

He asks quietly as if someone—or something—is going to answer. There’s only silence. He stares at Cora, quiet on the bed in his loft, willing her to wake. She lies there, still, like an image frozen in time.

_I should be with Stiles. Helping the others._ He wants to, but he knows that his sister needs him. He’s not going to leave her again. Not now, when she’s hanging in the balance.

“Argent left something behind for his daughter. Stiles and Scott are looking for their clues,” Peter says from the doorway, quiet. He has the respect to stay away and keep quiet. Derek is thankful for it, even if he knows it’s unfair. His uncle has as much right to be near Cora, to be worried. _I just don’t know if he can._ Something broke in the man a long time ago.

“What did they say?”

“Not much. They’re worried, of course. I’m going to help.”

_Do I go?_ Derek wants to ask but he bites his tongue. He can’t leave Cora alone. He doesn’t want to ask his uncle to take his place. What he desperately wants is to be in two places at once, helping Stiles and watching over his sister. He hates how things have split him in two, straining and stretching until he can’t see what’s right anymore. Everything is blurry.

“Make sure you rest,” Peter says shortly. “You’ll need to be ready if she comes here.”

The man leaves, his expression set in stone, and Derek wonders if that broken thing is mending. 

* * *

“What did you find?” Allison asks, breathless as she runs into the house. There are more people in Stiles’ house than there have been in years. Distantly, he wonders if he never realized how small it was or if it’s just the number of people.

“Missing persons. There are teachers we didn’t know that are missing. Apparently, there were other sacrifices after the girls. Two entire sets.”

“Two sets? How did we miss six people?” Allison breathes.

“The trip. The motel,” Stiles says bitterly. “Who knows when? She’s been killing without issue. It’s not surprising that she could do it without being too obvious. The only reason we’re so alert right now is because she took our parents.”

He hates to think that he’d missed disappearances. He hates it, but he knows why—they’d been gone, and then Derek had been missing and left for dead. So much had happened.  _Hell, she could have done it yesterday, and we wouldn’t have realized._

“We found a record at the hospital,” Isaac says. “Julia Baccari. A few years back, there was another incident like the one at the school. Crows committing mass suicide. I’m not sure how it’s connected.”

His words fade away. Stiles barely notices the others going back and forth—Jackson had appeared with Erica and Boyd, who had insisted on helping. Lydia, Allison, Scott. All of them talking and all of them wondering.  _How is it connected? How?_

“...three,” Stiles says, quiet at first. _Three_. The answer starts burning a hole in his brain, urging him, and he speaks louder. “It’s three.”

“What?” Lydia asks, the first to recognize that he’s talking again.

“Three,” Stiles says, his heart dropping. It feels like acid in his throat when he says it. He turns, running up the stairs. He can hear questions coming after him but he ignores them, rummaging through his drawers, frantic. His fingers brush the leather of the familiar journal and he snatches it out, taking the stairs two at a time to get back down.

“What do you mean, three?” Scott asks.

“I mean, she’s doing a ritual sacrifice,” Stiles says, dread flooding him. He finds the right page after a few moments of frantic flipping. “Five-fold knot. She’s using sets of threes—they all give her something. The first one was virgins, the second one—warriors. Harris. Then healers, philosophers. They’ve all been for something. They’re giving her power.”

“Power,” Lydia says, wary. “Jennifer—Julia is using this to make herself stronger. Then this set is—what? Parents? Guardians?”

“Okay, so, she’s trying to get stronger. Why? She already seems pretty strong,” Erica notes, frowning.

“We’re going to need help with her,” Scott agrees. “I know none of us like the idea—I mean, we did threaten them with her—but maybe we should talk to Deucalion. Deaton said—,”

“You’re right, I don’t like that idea,” Jackson says shortly, arms crossed over his chest.

Someone knocks on the door.

Stiles tenses. He can feel the others shifting in place, ready to fight. Somehow, though, Stiles knows it isn’t the Darach. It can’t be. He doesn’t feel the same imbalance he had when Heather was taken. There’s nothing. Maybe he isn’t a werewolf or anything like it, but he can still sense that there’s nothing there. He opens the door to Peter, uncharacteristically serious.

“Peter? What—,”

“Did someone say Julia?”

“Yeah. Julia Baccari,” Stiles says, closing the door uneasily as Peter walks in. “Why?”

“The name is familiar.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think she’s important,” Peter says smoothly. His brow is just a little knotted, as if he’s trying to recall something from too long ago. _Does he remember things properly?_ Stiles has always wondered, about what the man can recall from before the fire. If death had changed him.

“Okay, well, I’m going to need more to go on,” Stiles says testily. He tries to keep himself in check, but with their parents missing and Cora lingering between life and death, he can’t say his mood is great.

“Why don’t we call Deaton?” Scott submits carefully. “He has records. He’ll know if she was involved, in the past.”

“Let’s go,” Stiles says suddenly, snatching his jacket from its hook. He can see the surprise in his friends’ faces as he throws it on, itching to move. “I have some questions for him, and I’d rather be there in person. That way, he can’t hang up on us.”

* * *

Deaton is waiting for them, of course. He’s standing before the familiar operation table, leaning on the cold metal. Stiles sighs through his nose heavily, wondering when the man will stop being cryptic and start being helpful. _I sure as hell hope it’s now._

“We need to know where to find her,” Stiles says, slapping the maps down on the table. Lydia helps him unfold them, perfect red nails smoothing over the corners.

“Who?” The way Deaton asks, it’s as if he knows _what_ they’re talking about. Of course.

“The darach, I’m assuming. Isn’t that your area of expertise?”

Deaton’s gaze is warning. Stiles has rarely seen the man look dangerous, but this is one of those times. His eyes glint with steel. No matter how much Stiles had trained with him over the summer, he has no doubt that Deaton would take him out if necessary.  _I don’t trust him,_ Stiles thinks,  _but only because of what he knows_ . He knows too much. More than he’ll ever tell them.

“Telluric currents,” Deaton begins slowly, tearing his gaze from Stiles. “They run in a grid through Beacon Hills.”

“Someone want to tell me what those are?” Isaac mutters, glancing at the group.

“Electric currents,” Lydia explains. “They run all over the earth. They’re usually low-frequency. Why is this important?”

“She’s been leaving bodies there, hasn’t she?” Stiles asks, clenching his jaw. Looking at the map, it would seem nonsensical, but he knows there’s a pattern. _There’s always a pattern_.

Deaton is silent. He turns to reach for a book behind him, heavy and leather-bound. The pages are yellowing and he opens it to a spot marked by a scrap of paper. It’s exactly what he’d expect — a map of Beacon Hills, complete with thin blue lines. Scott inches in between Stiles and Lydia, tracing lines onto the map on the table.

“Let me guess,” Stiles says, already dreading the answer. He can tell before Scott finishes. “There’s something at the center.”

“Well. There’s the Nemeton,” Deaton says.

“More names,” Jackson mutters, arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s a sacred space,” Deaton explains shortly. “Used in Celtic rituals. She’s not just powering herself; she’s charging the lines.”

“For what?” Scott asks.

“If I had to guess? A fight. One that you would have no hope of winning.”

* * *

Stiles is coming. It makes him feel better—only a little, really, but enough. 

Cora has been out for almost an entire day. Lydia had found her at the school and Peter had brought her to Derek’s, silent and stony. It was the first time Derek had seen some of Peter’s old instability again. He feels unstable himself, watching his younger sister lie quietly on the bed as if she’ll never move again.  _ I can’t handle failing her. Not when I’ve failed so many others. _

Someone knocks on the door. Peter raises an eyebrow at Derek from across the bed. Derek quietly rises, crossing the open loft to answer it.

“Derek. Do you remember me?”

He barely does. A teacher, he thinks, that he’d briefly met. He had gone to the school to look for Erica and Boyd. They had talked briefly — she’d flirted, he remembers — and then he’d left. It was the night that he ran into Stiles, walking alone at night.

“Jennifer?”

“Please. Let me in,” she pleads, glancing over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide. His instinct is to agree — she seems to need help — but he hesitates. He’s not sure why — maybe it’s Cora; maybe it’s the other werewolves on their way over. Maybe something else.

“My sister isn’t feeling well,” Derek says softly. “I —,”

“ Please. I know you know. Anyone else will think I’m crazy,” she says, persistent. Derek blinks.  _ She knows? _

He steps out of the way to let her in, still trying to grasp what’s happening. The bedroom is half-visible, the door partway open, and Peter is watching them with sharp eyes. He doesn’t trust her. Derek can’t bring himself to care. Not when they might have answers.

“What happened?” Derek asks quietly, sitting across from her on the couch. Jennifer brushes her hair away from her face, blinking, as if she’s trying to get her thoughts together. She laughs, but there’s not joy in it.

“I don’t even know if you’ll believe me.”

“Try me.”

“There...there’s something after me, I think. I don’t know — all these deaths —,”  she says, choking on her words. She sniffles, shaking her head, and Derek uneasily shifts in place.

Everything is right, but something is wrong. Something is putting him off. He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows that this isn’t what it seems.  _ It’s Cora,  _ he thinks.  _ I can’t focus _ . He tries to clear his mind, concentrating on what Jennifer is saying.

“What do you know?”

“I know you’re not really...I mean, you’re…,” Jennifer trails off.  _ Not human _ .

There’s another sharp knock at the door. Derek rises but Jennifer catches his wrist, something terrified in her gaze. 

“Don’t. Please — there’s something trying to —,”

“ Don’t worry,” Derek says, patient. He can smell Stiles from here, the familiar earthy smoke and honey. “They’re friends. They can help.”

“No —,”  Jennifer starts, but Derek is already pulling away. 

He opens the door, wanting nothing more than to pull Stiles into his arms. There’s even a tiny spark of warmth between them for a moment — the promise of support and love — but then Stiles’ eyes slide over Derek’s shoulder. He finds Jennifer and then his eyes widen and he throws the door wider, yelling Scott’s name as he presses himself out of the way.

Things happen quickly.

Scott runs forward, snarling, and Isaac is close on his heels.  Derek barely has time to turn on his heel, snarling, pushing them back. They both pause, claws still ready, glaring at Jennifer. Before Derek can open his mouth, he looks at Stiles. It almost breaks him, the way Stiles looks betrayed before he covers it up, something hard settling in his expression.

“She came here for help. She knows,” Derek starts, trying to explain. He can hear Jennifer’s heartbeat racing.  _ Even if she wasn’t sure, she knows, now. _

“Of course she knows. Ask her what she did to Lydia,” Isaac says.

_ What? _ Derek turns to glance over his shoulder. Jennifer shakes her head, eyes wide. 

“Listen, she came because she says someone is trying to kill her. She might know what this is about.”

“Ask her what she did to Cora,” Stiles says quietly. “What ritual she used to poison her with wolfsbane, or if she just shoved it down her throat and hoped she would choke.”

Derek’s blood runs cold. He can hear Peter rise from his place in the bedroom, eyes flickering like mirrors, but it doesn’t matter to him. The only thing that matters is the woman behind him and his sister, lying on the bed. Derek turns to Jennifer, opening his mouth to ask, and then he sees it. He sees the precise moment that the mask slips away, her terror and worry sliding into nothingness. She tilts her head, arms crossed over her chest, as if watching particularly interesting children.

“I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty,” Jennifer says evenly, “but even I wouldn’t be that rough. Poison doesn’t need to be painful.”

Derek roars. He flies toward her, the only thing on his mind  _ hurt,  _ and then the door to the loft slams open again. He feels the smallest seed of triumph at the flash of terror on her face before he turns to see the twins there, rotating their shoulders lazily.

“Don’t mind us,” one of them says.

“We’re just following orders,” the other finshes.

He’s only ever seen them shift together once before. He hates it. Derek turns to Scott, ready to tell him  _ fight them off until we can get Cora out _ , and then Kali enters the loft. Derek feels his heart drop. It’s just Peter, Isaac, Scott, and him. Stiles may be there, but if anything, he’s more vulnerable — Derek can already imagine him being taken just for leverage.

“They’re here to kill me,” Jennifer says shortly. “Keep them off me, and I’ll save your sister.”

Scott looks to Derek. There’s a question in his eyes.  _ Are you willing to go this far? _ The answer, they both know, is  _ yes _ . 

The fight breaks out like an explosion. Derek can barely keep track of what’s happening, and then Jackson, Erica, and Boyd, appear. Lydia is close on their heels, moving toward the bedroom with Stiles. Derek can’t spare any concentration for them; he’s too busy fighting Kali with Erica and Boyd. They’re not doing well. He feels like he’s hitting walls and pillars more than he’s hitting the werewolf; nothing seems to be working to deter her or the twins.  No matter how hard he tries to make a dent, they just keep coming, powerful and full of some strange rage.

Erica screams. Kali holds her against the wall, prepared to strike, and then Stiles yells.

“STOP!” He roars the word almost as if he were a wolf. There’s an undercurrent of something in it, static and energized. Some strange magic. Derek feels his heart drop when the Alphas pause, turning from their fights to look at Stiles. He’s standing in the middle of the room, fingers wrapped around a silvery bat.

“What’s this? Human?” Kali asks, tossing Erica aside. Boyd is immediately at her side as she coughs.

“Surely, we’re civilized enough to talk,” Stiles says icily. There’s a flicker in his gaze that Derek almost recognizes — it’s almost like Deaton, but not quite. “Or do you lose all sense of decency when you leave your master’s side?”

The wolves growl. Derek recognizes the jibe — after all, a pack full of Alphas can’t be the most functional. He has no clue what Stiles is doing, though, and he gets the uneasy feeling that it won’t end well. Not when he’s the only one who knows the plan.

“What do you have to talk about?” Kali asks, chuckling darkly. “You have some nerve, helping this monster. You must be attracted to this,” she adds. Derek has to restrain himself. 

“We aren’t harboring the Darach,” Stiles says patiently, although there’s still a sharp edge to his tone. “She has hurt one of ours. We’re simply holding her accountable.”

“This began before you,” Kali snarls. “Julia is mine to kill.”

_ What?  _ Derek feels lost — he barely knows what’s happening — but he can see the tiny glint of knowledge in Stiles’ eyes.  _ He knows what’s going on. _ Stiles shifts on his feet, hands folded over the top of his bat. He looks like Deucalion, Derek realizes, with the bat. He’s using the posture to his advantage, however little it helps him with the two Alphas.

“Of course. But first, we would have her keep her word. As a matter of bridging the gap — the principle of cooperation between packs. We understand her betrayal. Your fury. Understand ours.”

In the moment of silence that follows, Derek almost thinks  _ he’s done it _ . He might have, for all they know. The twins seem ready to back down, but Kali’s eyes flicker left of Stiles. They land on Scott and Derek catches her gaze.  _ Why do they want Scott?  _ Now that he knows what they want, he has no clue why. It’s not about the Darach at all — they came to Beacon Hills for Scott. The Darach was a mistake; one that happened before the Alphas even came to town.

“I have my directions,” Kali says, shifting as if preparing to lunge.

Before anyone can move, there are two quiet pops, the shattering of glass punctuating the silence. Derek blinks, shocked, and watches Kali and the twins both reel back, growling. There are bluish stains on their chests, bright and thick-smelling.  _ Wolfsbane. Ash?  _ Other things that Derek can’t identify. Poison.  Stiles watches with passive interest, swinging his bat onto his shoulder before he turns toward the window and  _ winks _ .

“You may want to tend to those,” Stiles says mildly, pushing past Kali to open the door. “We’ll talk soon. If he hasn’t  _ reprimanded _ you by then,” he adds, emphasis heavy.

Derek watches, frozen, as the Alphas leave, snarling and shifting unevenly under the effects of the poisons. Stiles shuts the door behind them and then Lydia walks out from the bedroom, phone in hand.

“Thanks, Allison. Come in once they’ve left. We have a lot to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I promised I'd get back to it this month. I really have the story planned, but I just haven't had time to write. Working three jobs at once is like that. In any case, please enjoy. I appreciate those of you who come back more than you realize. When I get the hang of balancing everything, I'll certainly update on a regular basis. Thank you so much for sticking with me!


	14. Like Real Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes a chance.

“She’s gone,” Derek says. His voice sounds empty. Stiles glances at Lydia, worried, and then Allison appears at the door. She takes one look at the people in the room and makes a beeline for Isaac and Scott, checking them over before turning to Stiles.

“What now? They won’t give up.”

“She was an Emissary,” Peter says suddenly, eyes dark. He looks like he’s coming apart at the seams, Stiles thinks. _He hasn’t looked like this since freshman year._ “She was Kali’s. I remember her name, now.”

Stiles swallows. Deaton’s lessons float to mind, echoing in his ears like a nightmarish choir. He can feel something heavy settling in his chest—a realization, maybe, or an understanding. He knows what he has to do. He also knows that it’s going to be dangerous, and at the end of everything, some of them may not really be standing.

“Derek, Scott, and the Betas should look for where our parents are being held,” Stiles says, hearing himself as if he’s standing far away. “There’s a Nemeton; it should a tree stump in the middle of a clearing. I—,”

“I’m going with them,” Lydia says shortly. Stiles looks at her, pausing. He listens to Scott say something kind about danger or risk, but he’s not paying attention. He’s paying attention to Lydia, and how her expression is worried but sure. How she looks like she _knows_.

“What did she say to you?”

“...she told me what I am,” Lydia whispers. “She said I’m a banshee. I can find them.”

“How?” Scott asks, glancing at the others. Stiles can see in their faces that they’re unsure about this new revelation. He’s too exhausted to even think about the implications. “What if she was lying?”

“I don’t think she was,” Stiles says quietly. “Go with them. Allison, I’m going to need your help.”

“I can’t leave Cora,” Derek says, sounding miserable. Stiles can tell he’s shouldering blame again—and maybe he is to blame, a little, for letting Jennifer in. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so trusting, but something tells Stiles she would have found her way in no matter what. _They always do._

“I know. But I’m going to bring her back,” Stiles says shortly. Derek looks at him, hopeful but unsure, and Stiles tries to ignore the fact that his heart is pounding. He hopes Derek can brush it off as nerves or adrenaline. The group start to move away, an uneasy tension hanging in the air, but Derek lingers in the hall. Stiles steps out, heart in his throat, a little terrified.

“This is dangerous,” Derek says quietly. His eyes rove over Stiles, as if he’s trying to memorize everything in that small moment.

“I know. Don’t get yourself killed again. I don’t have any more clean sheets,” Stiles jokes, but the words are empty. He can feel an ache in his chest where the knowledge of what’s to come has settled, painful and warning.

There are so many reasons they shouldn’t be standing here. _Derek should be dead. He should have died so many accidents ago. I should be dead, too, either by accident or from the millions of times I’ve been in trouble._ They should both be dead or gone, but they’re not. They’re standing, and Stiles has saved Derek from death. Stiles reaches for Derek’s hand and his heart almost breaks when he holds it, feeling the warmth contained in it. He likes the way Derek’s hands feel, unmarked from his healing power but still just a little rough, like there are some things that can’t be smoothed over. Stiles likes the way Derek looks at their joined hands, like he’s still shocked that it could happen. He likes the way Derek holds him as if he wants to protect him with his entire body. When Stiles tilts his head, he likes the way Derek meets him halfway, eyes slipping shut even before their lips touch. Most of all, he thinks he likes the way that Derek tastes, some indescribable richness that Stiles thinks he’s going to become addicted to. _Maybe that’s not such a bad thing._

“Come back,” Stiles murmurs when they break apart, the feeling there and gone as the pressure of the moment looms over them.

“Be safe. Please,” Derek says, his voice breaking on the word. Stiles almost holds him right then; he almost gives up on his plan, ready to stay by Derek’s side and ensure his safety. Instead, he steps back, feeling like his heart is ripping with every inch between them. _I just want him to be safe._

Derek leaves and Stiles slips back into the loft, the cracks inside of him jagged and raw. Allison is waiting there with Peter, tense, watching him from Cora’s side. Stiles worries at his bottom lip, trying to focus on what he needs to do. What he’s about to attempt. His hand is already reaching for his phone.

“She’s weak,” Peter says quietly.

“Allison—I’m going to need some things from Deaton. I don’t want you going alone—,”

“But I’ll be safe. I’m fast,” Allison says shortly. Stiles pauses, looking at her—his brave, beautiful, strange sister. He knows she’s right. He nods, dialing the number with one hand, and then he raises his phone to his ear.

“I need supplies. Mistletoe poisoning. Failsafes. Allison’s stopping by to pick them up.”

“ _What you’re doing is dangerous,_ ” Deaton says. He doesn’t say anything else. Stiles wishes he could throw a pillow at the man through the phone. “ _You know what could happen._ ”

“Yes, I do. Supplies and book. Please,” Stiles adds, because he knows Deaton will agree anyway but he doesn’t want to stoop to the cryptic levels that the man is at.

Stiles hangs up and Allison rises from her place by the bed, stopping on her way out to stand next to Stiles. She glances back over her shoulder at Peter, eyes sharp. Stiles knows that Allison is aware the man can hear them, but she keeps her voice low anyway, coolly turning away from Peter.

“Watch your back. This isn’t going to end quietly.” Allison slips a dagger out of her boot, passing it to Stiles with a raised eyebrow. A question.

“I have mine,” he reassures her, accepting the dagger. “Be careful.”

“Always.”

Stiles watches her leave from the windows, hoping that nothing will happen, feeling a lump in his throat start to choke him. All he wants is for everyone to be at the loft, close and safe. He knows he can’t protect them forever—or now, even—but he knows he needs to try. He needs to try, with what little power and training he has. With his secret. Peter looks at him from across the bed, his eyes somehow holding a question. He leans closer.

“Has Derek ever told you about Paige?”

* * *

“How will you know what to do?”

She almost doesn’t hear his question. The evening is cold and unforgiving; her legs feel icy in the harsh air. Lydia feels like she usually does—improperly dressed and underprepared.

She doesn’t feel weak anymore.

It had taken a long time for her to own up to that. To her weakness. She had hated it at first, the lingering feeling of not being good enough. It hadn’t taken long for her to use it, though. To harden. Maybe part of it was because of Jackson—because she’d had to keep up with him, after his change and after the way she’d been rocked by the revelations it had entailed.

“Lydia? Are you sure about this?” She turns to look at Scott, who is still careful in his questioning even though he’s clearly on edge.

“I’m sure,” she says softly, and then she turns.

She screams.

* * *

“ _What did you find?_ ” It’s the first thing Peter asks. Derek bites his tongue at looks over his shoulder.

He feels like a failure, in more ways than one. Derek feels like he just keeps failing—like he’s been failing from the beginning. He’d failed to realize that Erica and Boyd weren’t in the best place to become werewolves. He’d failed to realize that Scott wasn’t a threat. He’d failed to realize that Peter was dangerous. He had failed, over and over again, pretending he knew more than he really did. Pretending that his few years of training with his family could serve him well.

He was always woefully unprepared.

“Nothing,” Derek says quietly. He can see Lydia with Jackson, her mouth a thin line of disappointment but her gaze steady. She hadn’t said anything when their search had turned up nothing. When she’d tried to follow the sounds she heard and all the hiding places had been empty.

“ _He doesn’t want me to tell you. Any of you._ ”

“Tell us what?” Scott asks, turning on his heel to face Derek. “Who?”

Derek already knows. He feels the hitch in his heart and the certainty in his chest. He almost can’t move, terror pounding in his veins. The world is too sharp and he almost draws into himself, trying to protect against the onslaught to his senses. He knows he’s shifting.

“ _I don’t know what—,_ ” Peter starts, his voice still low and serious, and then the air changes.

Somehow, they all look to Lydia. Derek feels it like static against his skin, the hair on his arms prickling and standing up. The lightning pause lingers as the girl looks somewhere into the distance, enraptured, as if there is a secret being whispered only into her ears. She takes a step forward, faltering, and then she jerks back as if pushed, stumbling into Jackson’s arms.

When she had tried the first time, her voice had been tinged with frustration and anger and desperation. It had been the call of someone searching for something. It had sounded like Derek had imagined it would; like the wail of a woman heralding something painful and sad. Derek had expected it to be loud—she is, after all, a banshee—and it had been loud. But it’s nothing like this.

Lydia screams.

She screams and it’s the piercing, ringing call of death. It is the sound of woe and terror and a fight. The wolves nearly hit the ground, hands flying to their ears, mirrored grimaces and flickering eyes turned away. Derek can’t even move. He feels the scream in his blood, a sonic thrum that morphs into a name. _Stiles._

Derek barely hears his uncle on the other end of the line before he hangs up. The pack follow on his heels and they’re tearing out of the woods, screeching down dark streets to get back to the loft. Derek’s hands are sweaty against the steering wheel. He doesn’t even know who’s in his car; all he knows is that he has to get back. There are images behind his eyes—Stiles, with the Darach’s hand at his throat. Stiles, with a wolf’s claws through his chest. Stiles, with his cold fingers on Cora’s arm as he slips away. Stiles, giving his life in some misguided attempt to save the people he cares about. A million different pictures of death and Derek can see them all.

_I won’t let him die. I can’t. I can’t fail, again._

* * *

Peter watches Stiles with wary eyes. He hangs up—probably from talking to Derek—and joins Allison at the bedside. Stiles barely spares him a glance, focusing on the items in his hands. Candles, herbs, oil. Most of it is just there to ground him; it’s ritualistic, giving him a way to focus and channel his power. It’s enough. It will have to be enough.

“You said this was dangerous,” Peter says lowly. His eyes, blue and perfect, watch Stiles move around the bed. _I’ll bet he was a good uncle. The best. Always sneaking food into school for his nieces and nephews._ Stiles wants to ask—there are so many stories he wants to hear, from times that the Hales probably still miss and might not even want to talk about. Might never want to talk about.

But Stiles wants to know. He wants to know them—their hopes, their dreams—and he wants to capture some of that beauty. That love. He wants to bring it back to life, like a flower lingering on the borders of death.

“Everything is dangerous, Creeper Wolf,” Stiles says. With his back to Peter and Allison, he can make his voice sound cheeky. He can infuse it with what he’s missing, now. With everything he feels like he can’t reach.

He is so damn tired.

Stiles is exhausted. Not just because he’s running on close to no sleep; not just because he hasn’t eaten a proper meal in ages. Not just because Stiles has barely talked to his dad in weeks, or because he’s been cramming homework in between battles for his life. He’s not just exhausted because he thought he’d lost the man he loved, only to find him bleeding out on his bed. Not just because the threads of the mystery feel like they’re strangling him, tangling him in a web that’s too strong to break.

Stiles is exhausted because he just wants everyone to be happy. He just wants them to be safe and he wants to save what little precious life they have left. The smallest damn semblance of normality or love that they have in their hands. Stiles just wants that safe.

“Stiles. You don’t have to do this,” Allison says. He turns to her—his perfect sister, because the family you choose is just as precious as the one you’re given—and tries not to cry.

“I know.”

“I won’t lie for you,” Peter says. His eyes are dark. “Not for this.”

“I know that, too,” Stiles says, his voice cracking just a little. _God, I’m going to miss them if I die._ “So, Leia one and two…ready to help me get into the carbonite?”

It’s a poor joke but they humor him. At this point, he thinks they’re the two people that know most what he’s like. What he is willing to do. It’s almost funny, given the fact that they would never be in a room together otherwise. Allison, his beautiful warrior princess, and Peter, the homicidal-leaning werewolf zombie. Somehow, they both respect and understand him, and Stiles thinks it’s one of the most precious gifts he’s ever been given.

The unlikely trio. He kind of likes the thought.

“I’ll need you both to stay at least three inches away from the circle,” Stiles starts, pushing away his feelings. He needs to concentrate if he’s going to make it.

Allison and Peter pull back, watching Stiles as he starts laying out his items. The circle itself is just as important as the act; it’s a ritual, binding him and his space. It keeps Stiles safe and sure. He remembers his first time using magic—the powder Deaton had given him and the attempt to figure out the kanima. Stiles remembers how tightly he’d shut his eyes, tracing a path around the building like he was walking a tightrope.

He doesn’t shut his eyes anymore.

The candles go to the wind—the four cardinal corners, with a murmured prayer-spell as he places each one. Stiles blocks everything out; his not-quite-goodbyes, the thought of Derek and the others still out in the woods, the very real threat of the Darach and the Alpha Pack. The thought of his father, and Allison’s father and Scott’s mother, all either hiding or injured. Dead. All of it is gone, left behind like dust, and Stiles only knows the wax beneath his fingers and the smell of roses and sunflower oil. He traces the circle with a steady hand and then he walks it again, salt trailing from his fingers. The third time, he breathes, sealing up the past and present and future all at once.

Stiles looks down at Cora from the foot of the bed. She is quiet and still, like a memory that’s threatening to fade away. A recaptured piece of the past. Stiles exhales slowly, arms bent at his waist at ninety-degree angles, palms down. His eyelids feel heavy but he doesn’t close his eyes; he just narrows the window of the world to a thin line, imagining it’s a heart rate monitor, flickering as he concentrates. Stiles turns his hands, natural and smooth, and when his palms face the ceiling, the candles flicker to life.

He can heal Peter and Allison inhale sharply. It’s just another sound adding to the symphony playing around him. It doesn’t faze him. He feels the flame around him, its warmth reassuring. Testing.

Fire is strong. Stiles has always known it—respected it. He’d learned how to make a fire, camping with his father, back when his mother was still around. _Always watch it, Stiles. It’s hungry. You’ve got to keep it fed, but never filled. It always wants more. You have to know when to stop._ There was always a thin line between his father and the fire, like they were of two different stock, eyeing each other with respect and wariness.

It’s always been different for Stiles. He’s always looked at the fire with a transfixion. A calling. He’d always stayed away, of course; he’s not stupid. One burn of his hand on the stove had taught him that heat could be bad. Yet, somehow, the fire was different. Its burning was not the same. Stiles, who is always a little cold—always wearing a hoodie or a plaid button-up over his shirts—has been drawn to the fire. To the flicker of the thing that he can create.

Stiles calls to it. He asks for it. The fire is hotter; he knows the flames from the candle are probably rising. They’re impossibly tall, fed by something invisible. They encircle him and Cora and Stiles concentrates until the window he’s looking through is nothing but orange-red-gold, a strip of liquid fire.

_I need to heal her. I need to draw the poison out,_ he thinks. It’s not so much thinking as it is _feeling_ , though; his inner voice is gone. It’s not the same way he thinks when he’s considering what to eat for breakfast or what homework he has. This is the floating voice of something greater than him.

_Let me take it._

He can never get used to the way his body moves on its own when he does this. His legs take him to the bed and his hands are careful as they lift Cora, gentle on her back, tilting her upright. A small breath escapes her lips as she sits there, her head supported by Stiles’ hand, skin cool to the touch. Stiles knows what to do—it comes back to him in pieces. When he’s like this—in this kind of trance—things are easier. He isn’t racking his brain for the knowledge that’s there. All of Deaton’s books are just at the back of his mind, like a library, and instead of searching for the right one it just falls into his hands. He can almost feel it there, heavy and purposeful. He remembers the information. The directions.

_Hand at the heart, thumb to the throat. Three times cursed, three times broke._

At some point, he starts saying it. His voice is so soft that if he were thinking, he might wonder if Peter can still hear. Instead, he repeats the words as softly as a crackling flame. He can feel Cora’s skin heating under his touch. It stings at first—sharp and burning, like the feeling you get when you’re having blood drawn. Stiles can push his emotions and thoughts away, but he can’t push the pain. It’s the most real thing there is, with his magic raw and the spell on his tongue. The pain gets worse and he can feel Cora’s chest rising beneath his hand, steadier. Her throat is working like something is trying to push its way up and out.

The door echoes faintly. It’s so far away.

There are voices.

Derek might be there.

_Hand at the heart, thumb to the throat. Three times cursed, three times broke._

_Hand at the heart, thumb to the throat. Three times cursed, three times broke._

_Hand at the heart, thumb to the throat. Three times cursed, three times broke._

“Binding the body, muting the mind. What once was lost, let fire find,” Stiles says. The words feel like stones leaving his lips and his body is heavy. The ambient noise is overcome by a dull roar. He is vaguely aware of reality sinking back in. His knees hit the floor but he keeps hold of Cora, a hand pressed to her skin as he sways. The only thing he knows, without thinking, is that he can’t break contact. Even as he hears voices—shouting, what is probably his friends—he can’t answer. His heart cracks a little because he knows, in the recesses of his mind where he bleeds as he’s using magic, that this will hurt them. It hurts them to see this. He wishes they weren’t there.

The dull pain is worse. He is aware that his breath is thin. He can’t fill his lungs as much. There’s salt in the air and Stiles’ window widens as his grip on the magic flickers. He hangs onto it as much as he can. There’s a forest of flame around him. He recognizes that the fire isn’t just coming from the candles; it’s licking up from the floor itself, the wood somehow untouched. _Deaton would be so proud,_ he thinks. It’s warm. The fire is calling to him. He almost answers it. It’s so, so tempting. All it would take is just one touch—just a hand, allowing, and then everything would be warmth and perfection and _clean_. No past. No present. No future.

Stiles knows he doesn’t have much more in him to fight it. He still hangs on, though, the burn pulsing up his arm from where his hand is over Cora’s heart. He can’t hold himself up anymore and he feels his head bounce against the floor but it’s not anywhere near as painful as the mistletoe he’s dragging from Cora’s veins. Stiles blinks, his vision dancing like the flames. His other arm is stretched above his head. He’s faintly aware that it’s just reaching toward the circle. He wonders why it’s so quiet in his ears if he knows his friends are screaming.

Someone touches him.

There’s a hand grasping his and then Peter is _there_ , pulling himself through the fire, and Stiles blinks slowly and stupidly. He almost opens his mouth— _Peter, you’re not supposed to come inside the circle, I told you not to come inside the circle_ —but he’s too slow. Everything is too slow, like syrup and ash.

Peter’s hand feels so good. It’s firm and strong and there’s a set of tiny pricks, encircling Stiles’ wrist.

The magic goes slowly. Stiles is distantly aware that Cora is coughing, pulling herself away and up to the head of the bed, her breath ragged as if she’s been running. The circle of fire is lowering, crackling and dying out, and Stiles can feel himself following it. He is following it like he’s not supposed to, because it’s instinct, to follow his other half as it goes.

Stiles can see tiny rivers of blood spool down his pale skin and he feels something call to him.

“ _Oh_ ,” Stiles gasps, because suddenly the call is a roar. It’s oak and daffodil, the feeling of charred wood and the taste of spiced wine. It’s the heat of a summer day on a flat rock, water rushing hundreds of feet below, and a hawk taking wing with its eyes trained on a mouse. It’s a golden ring of orange blossoms, looped with wild green grass and pressed into the palm of a hand.

It’s Peter.

Stiles comes back to himself in a rush, his ears ringing, and he thinks they’re wet—there’s probably blood, either from Lydia’s scream or from the magic. Stiles can barely hear the pack over the sound. His eyelids are heavy and he blinks once at Peter, wanting to frown. Wanting to cry. _You shouldn’t have followed me in, Peter. You shouldn’t have gone through that fire._

The way Peter looks at him, Stiles can almost hear him say, _it was mine to walk through_.

“Silly,” Stiles whispers, his voice hoarse as if he’s swallowed an entire desert. “You don’t have to prove yourself. I know your heart.”

_I know your heart,_ Stiles thinks, with the echo of his Spark still singing in his heart, and then he closes his eyes and lets the silence engulf him.

* * *

Derek doesn’t peel himself away from the bed. It’s only been twenty minutes and Allison had assured them, after several checks and worried examinations, that Stiles would be fine.

“He’s just exhausted,” she had said, pushing his hair away from his forehead with careful fingers. The others had been silent, milling about the loft, and Peter had set about finding blankets and pillows. It feels like it’s been a week since they started into this mess when Derek knows it’s barely been a day. It’s only been a few hours since they discovered the sheriff, Argent, and Melissa were missing. As much as Derek knows they’re probably still alive, given the fact that Julia only recently left the loft, he still can’t help but want to go back out as soon as possible.

But they’re exhausted. All of them. Jackson and Lydia are passed out on the couch, curled around each other; even Scott is holding Allison’s hand tightly, pressed against Isaac for warmth. Erica and Boyd are huddled at the foot of the bed, refusing to leave Stiles. Even Cora, after waking, is visibly tired. Peter is, too, lines settling into his face.

“What was that?” Cora asks quietly. Her voice is rough—either from Julia’s poisoning or the extraction—and she hovers by Derek, a blanket pulled tight around her shoulders. Derek shakes his head. Cora glances at the others. “It felt…it felt like…”

“Like fire,” Peter finishes for her, low and gravelly. Derek pricks at the word, feeling his hair raise the same as the growl in his chest. He pushes it down but Peter glances at him knowingly. “Real fire.”

“Real?” Derek echoes.

“Yes. Not like gasoline or gas or any of that. Like _fire_. Like wood, or lightning. Like earth.”

“Real,” Cora echoes. Her fingers ghost across a spot below her collarbone. It’s faintly red, like she’s been burned. It doesn’t seem painful. _It should be healed. She’s a werewolf._

_So, what does that make Stiles?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy wow, did that seem like it took much longer than it did. I have the rest of the series ready to go, but for some reason, I couldn't figure out where to cut this one. I know it was very heavy on the one scene, but I felt like it was necessary to have a little breath before the plunge. After all, from here, things just kind of rush to a head.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy. More soon.


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